


Dirty Laundry

by vipjuly



Category: Supernatural
Genre: BDSM, Bottom Dean Winchester, Brief Mentions of Dean/Meg, Choking, Doctor Castiel, Face Slapping, Famous Castiel, Famous Dean Winchester, M/M, Murder, Serial Killer Dean Winchester, Serial Killers, Strangulation, Team Dean's Red Ass, Top Castiel, Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester, Virgin Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-21
Updated: 2018-04-21
Packaged: 2019-04-25 21:14:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14387244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vipjuly/pseuds/vipjuly
Summary: Perhaps intelligence comes with its own dose of insanity.Dr. Castiel James Novak is a leading name in the mental health community. When Dean Winchester, self-proclaimed Golden Gardens killer, lies down on his couch for the first time, Castielfeelsit.Dean Winchester is exactly who he says he is.Castiel Novak is exactly who Dean makes him out to be.





	Dirty Laundry

**Author's Note:**

> thank you to my sweet leaf [ThePandaSquid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePandaSquid), as always, for not only being my personal cheerleader, but for looking at this minor monstrosity with as much excitement as i felt while writing it.  
> please note that any and all bdsm scenes are played out with explicit consent whether or not it is written into the verbiage.  
> grab a drink, this is best read in one go.

_I've got a bad boy and that's alright with me_  
_His dirty laundry is nothing that I can't keep clean_  
_And when he needs an alibi_  
_He can use me all night_

_I'm just a bad girl, that's why we get along_  
_Won't make excuses for anything I'm doing wrong_  
_I'll pull the trigger in a flash_  
_Watch out honey, step back_

Castiel isn’t stupid. In fact, he’s far from it. As a licensed and well-respected psychotherapist his professional circle is broad and his services come highly recommended from other medical professionals; his presence at charities, auctions, and fundraisers has him in the public’s eye as being a textbook handsome, rich doctor, and his patients revere him as a miracle worker. Not a single patient of his has had any sort of relapse in the ten years he’s been practicing - in fact, he’s very good at helping people make their way back into a functioning way of living. Before meeting the famed Castiel Novak, most medical professionals have their doubts about him actually being able to help patients without the help of any sort of hard drugs - but, then, they meet him and see his success rates and… as they say - the rest, is history. 

So, back to the main point: Castiel is not stupid.

Perhaps intelligence comes with its own dose of insanity - not stupidity.

Because, of course, Castiel Novak’s most troubled patient is Dean Winchester, the man responsible for the Golden Gardens murders. 

At least, that’s what Dean Winchester says, professing his sins like a Catholic man in confessional to Castiel every Wednesday morning. Airing his dirty laundry right there on Castiel’s line.

That insanity that Castiel sometimes feels within is tangible, because instead of telling Dean to go to the police and turn himself in - if he really _is_ the Golden Gardens killer - Castiel urges Dean to lay out every detail of his crimes, thoughts, and emotions. The way that Dean describes his ‘work’ is… enthralling; nothing out of the textbooks that Castiel had his nose buried in for the better part of his adult life. Castiel finds himself hanging on Dean’s every word like every session with him is an episode of True Crime and he finds himself wanting to get down to the bottom of Dean’s illness. 

Dean’s passion.

Today’s session is quiet, which sometimes happens. Dean has been coming to Castiel for about three months now and has highs and lows like pretty much every other manic-depressive patient Castiel sees, but Dean’s silence always seems a bit… heavier. He has never really expressed remorse over killing - again, _if_ he is truly the Golden Gardens killer - but whenever he gets melancholy like this sometimes he just… doesn’t talk. He’ll lie on Castiel’s beautiful royal purple velvet couch, hands over his stomach, fingers laced, eyes up on the ceiling. Meditative. And Castiel will watch from his leather wing chair, glasses low on his nose, fingers laced over his crossed knee, never goading Dean into saying anything. 

Castiel takes this time, always, to admire Dean Winchester. A handsome man, truly; just the right amount of soft and hard, pretty green eyes and stacked, firm body. Castiel has the rogue thought, sometimes, that if Dean ever gets apprehended for his wrongdoings, he’ll become an international sensation. 

Humans love it when pretty people commit atrocious crimes.

“Are you still taking cooking classes?” Castiel breaks the silence, relaxing a bit further into his chair. 

Dean’s eyes are still on the ceiling, “No.”

“Why?” Castiel pushes his glasses further up on the bridge of his nose, grabbing his clipboard to make a note. “You enjoyed them, did you not?”

“Yes,” Dean shifts so he can roll onto his side, his arms now crossed over his chest. He’s not wearing flannel today, which is a bit odd for a man of habit like Dean Winchester, but Castiel refrains from commenting. One thing at a time. 

“We both agreed that it would be good for you to see people in a controlled environment,” Castiel says, “so you could see what other people are passionate about.”

“It was mostly couples,” Dean grumbles. He’s facing Castiel, but his gaze is on the floor. 

“I see,” Castiel nods slowly. “Did that make you uncomfortable?”

“Gonna psychoanalyze my bachelorhood?” Dean’s gaze finally lifts to Castiel’s. He doesn’t look at Castiel’s face very often, but whenever he does, Castiel almost always loses his breath at the intensity of it. “Don’t need it.”

“No, Dean,” Castiel puts his clipboard back on the desk and takes his glasses off of his face, folding them up in his hand and holding them loosely. “You being single doesn’t have much to do with why you’re here.”

“Not gonna tell me that if I find a nice girl and settle down I’d clean up?” Dean’s gaze finally moves away from Castiel’s face, eyes glaring holes into the carpet. 

“Has someone told you that, before?” Castiel asks with interest. Nothing Dean has said or done indicates what his sexuality is, and Castiel thinks that’s part of the mystery.

Dean’s knees draw up a little bit. “Sammy.”

“Do you envy your brother?” Castiel asks. “He has a wife, a good job, and a baby on the way. Is that what you want?”

“No,” Dean’s jaw clenches visibly. 

Castiel idly taps his fingers over his knee. “Do you feel sexual attraction, Dean?”

Jade hues flick over towards Castiel briefly, before Dean rolls onto his back once more and rubs his palms down his denim covered thighs. “Yeah.”

“Do you act on it?”

“No.”

Asexual, perhaps?

“Do your sexual desires influence your… extra curricular activities?”

“No.”

Castiel’s brain starts working through the information slowly. He’s been trying to figure out, for about a month now, if Dean has some sort of impotence problem that drives him to kill. If he kills. As far as he knows Dean doesn’t sexually assault his victims or use knives, which are the usual tells for crimes of passion, so he’s been trying to figure out what exactly drives Dean to violence - especially since he’s killed both men, and women.

Bisexual, maybe.

“Why do you do what you do, Dean?”

Dean falls silent again, staring up at the ceiling. 

The clock chimes. Castiel stands up, putting his glasses in the breast pocket of his dress shirt, smoothing his tie over his chest. “If the cooking classes didn’t work out, I would like you to start gardening.”

Dean sits up and cracks his neck a few times, before sending Castiel a frown. “I live in an apartment.”

“Invest in some planters. Choose your favorite vegetable, and grow it.” Castiel slides his hands into the pockets of his slacks, regarding Dean quietly. “Nurture life.” 

Dean snorts, clearly seeing what Castiel is up to. “Alright, doc. I’ll see what I can do.” Bowl legs carry Dean Winchester, Golden Gardens killer, out of Castiel’s office.

When the door shuts and Castiel is left alone, he runs a hand through his messy hair and then moves to sit at his desk, starting to jot notes down in Dean’s file. 

Today wasn’t really any more enlightening than any other sessions, but Castiel has a feeling he’s got something to take away, anyhow.

\--

It’s raining. Which isn’t really news in Seattle weather, but that doesn’t mean that Castiel _likes_ the rain. He, like millions of other people in the world, considers it a good time to curl up with a nice book and while the night away doing mundane activities that normally don’t have any appeal. He has soup simmering on the stove and is dressed down in sweats and a tshirt, curled up in the corner of his sofa as he tries to focus on the story unfolding on the pages he’s holding. 

A knock on his door startles him. Blinking, he turns his gaze in the direction of his front door, wondering if maybe he misheard a clap of thunder.

_Bang bang bang._

Closing his book, Castiel frowns and sets the item down on his coffee table and wraps the blanket from the back of the couch around his body. He pads towards the front door and peers through the peephole, eyes widening in surprise. Unlocking the door and swinging it open, Castiel braces against the gust of cold air that blasts into his home.

“Dean?”

Dean is soaking wet from head to toe, hands shoved in the pockets of his pants. His bloodied pants. Castiel’s heart stutters against his ribs and without his own consent he steps to the side, offering Dean to enter his home.

His home.

He peers outside into the street to see if anyone else is watching Dean enter his house, and satisfied that he sees no nosy neighbors, Castiel shuts the door and locks it.

“How did you find my house?” Castiel asks. 

Dean is kneeling, unlacing his boots. “Psycho killer, remember? It wasn’t hard.”

Castiel’s lips flatten into a thin line as he watches Dean carefully put his wet boots upside down over the nearest floor vent. “Why are you here?”

When Dean stands, there’s not much emotion on his face or in his eyes. There never is. “I need an alibi.”

Castiel’s brows raise as he regards Dean plaintively. “So you came to your therapist’s house.”

Castiel has never seen Dean smile before, but - Dean _smiles_ and it’s wolfish and handsome and.... Deadly. “Who better?”

“I suppose,” Castiel says with a shrug. They’re still standing in the entryway and he looks down at Dean’s pants again, “Take those off. I’ll wash them.”

“They’re probably ruined,” Dean says, the smile gone. But he starts undressing anyway. 

“I’m sure I can figure something out,” Castiel replies. Dean strips down to his boxers and hands over the wet clothes to Castiel’s awaiting arms. “Hold on a moment. I’ll get you some dry clothes, too.”

In the laundry room Castiel spreads Dean’s stained jeans over the workbench, grabbing the Spray n’ Wash and dousing all of the dark spots liberally. A good start. He has Oxyclean if this doesn’t work. He turns on the washer and dumps in Dean’s shirts and socks as well, adding plenty of fabric softener. He opens up the dryer next, pulling out freshly dried sweatpants and a sweatshirt. He fishes around for a pair of boxers and then returns to Dean out in the foyer, holding the clothes out to him. Dean is shivering when he takes them, nodding his thanks when Castiel gestures in the direction of the bathroom.

When Dean shuts the door, Castiel drops the blanket around his shoulders on to the back of the couch. Well. So much for a relaxing night at home. He steps into the kitchen and grabs two bowls from the cupboard, setting them on the counter so he can open a drawer and dig around for a ladle. The evidence is probably circumstantial, but… that had definitely been blood on Dean’s pants. Where did it come from? Had Dean really murdered someone? He was very far away from Golden Gardens beach and Castiel knows Dean is a creature of habit, someone who doesn’t stray away from his M.O.; so, had he killed someone nearby?

If he killed someone.

Dean enters the kitchen with his now dry hair sticking up in a million directions, Castiel’s sweatpants hugging his hips snugly. The sweatshirt is also a little tight at the shoulders, but Dean looks comfortable and dry, his nose sniffing the air. “Soup?”

“Minestrone,” Castiel confirms, finally finding the ladle and beginning to serve the two bowls. He holds one out to Dean, who takes it with both hands. “Sit at the table.”

Dean follows the instruction and seats himself at Castiel’s small dining room table, his eyes glancing around Castiel’s house. It’s quaint and sparsely decorated, but Dean takes everything in with interest. 

Castiel sits across from him and doles out spoons, starting to stir his soup around. “Were you at Golden Gardens?” 

“No,” Dean starts blowing on a spoonful of soup.

“Why was there blood on your pants?” Castiel never beats around the bush with patients. With Dean. 

“Got in a fight,” Dean replies. He takes a bite of the soup. Makes a slight face, then returns his spoon to the bowl to start blowing on the next serving. 

“At a bar?” Castiel has yet to bring a bite up to his lips.

“Yeah,” Dean takes another mouthful, licking his lips. “Wasn’t gonna go. Was gonna come straight here, but…”

“It’s been a long time since you’ve drank,” Castiel comments.

“Didn’t drink,” Dean says gruffly. He spends less time blowing on the hot soup, clearly too hungry to wait.

“Did you go there to purposely cause a fight?” 

“You gonna charge me for this conversation?” Dean says, finally making eye contact.

“You’re seeking refuge,” Castiel says, “not therapy. I just happen to have some questions.”

Dean’s gaze narrows slightly, trying to find holes in Castiel’s words. When he doesn’t, he shrugs and goes back to his soup. “Yeah, I was lookin’ for a fight.”

“But not to kill,” Castiel confirms. 

“Yeah.” 

“Why?” 

Dean sits back in his chair, running a hand through his hair and then scrubbing his palm over his mouth. His brows are furrowed in thought. “Felt bad. Wanted someone to make me feel bad. Make me hurt.”

“Why would you want that?” 

“I was on my way here,” Dean says. “An’ I know I shouldn’t have gotten your information. Or wanted to come here.”

“You felt you needed to be punished,” Castiel ventures.

Dean gives a stiff nod, has another bite of soup. Castiel leans back in his seat a bit, processing Dean’s words. He takes a few more bites of soup, and then stands to move back into the kitchen. He grabs a loaf of bread, butter, and a knife, coming back to the table. He sets the items between himself and Dean and then sits down again, choosing his next words carefully.

“Why did you get my information, Dean?”

Dean doesn’t answer. Castiel doesn’t expect him to. They finish their soup and mop up the excess in their bowls with bread and then Castiel stands to clear up the mess, Dean staying seated. He’s fingering the edge of the table cloth when Castiel returns, and Castiel does his best to keep his body language open as he addresses the other man. 

“Will you be staying the night?”

Dean doesn’t meet Castiel’s eyes. “I shouldn’t.”

“But you will,” Castiel says, turning around. “I will set up the guest bedroom.” 

The guest bedroom hasn’t been used in far too long. Castiel shakes out the comforter and fluffs the pillows, cracking the window ever so slightly to let some fresh, rain-soaked air into the room. It’ll do. He has a feeling Dean won’t be doing much sleeping, anyway. 

When he returns to the dining room Dean is still in the same spot, his chin in his hand as he watches the storm rage outside of the window. 

“I haven’t killed anyone in three weeks.”

That gives Castiel pause. “Why not?”

“I don’t want you to hate me.”

“I can’t hate you, Dean.”

“Because you’re my doctor?”

“Because I can’t.”

Silence.

“Dean,” Castiel takes the seat next to the man, their knees nearly brushing, but not quite. “Why do you care if I hate you?”

“‘Cause you’re different.”

“How so?”

“I don’t wanna hurt you.”

“Why not?”

Dean shifts, his knee pressing fully against Castiel’s. It’s the first time they’ve ever touched. Dean didn’t even shake Castiel’s hand when they first met. It sends a jolt through Castiel’s body and he does his best to remain calm and collected, his eyes still trailing over Dean’s profile.

“I like you.”

Castiel nods slowly, “Could you elaborate?”

“I wanna fuck you.”

Castiel’s mouth goes dry, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. “I see.” Standing up, Castiel removes himself from Dean’s intoxicating orbit. “Goodnight, Dean.”

Dean doesn’t reply as Castiel retreats to his bedroom, shutting the door and locking it behind him.

\--

Dean is gone when Castiel wakes up in the morning. When he checks the guest bedroom the bed looks like it had been occupied at one point or another, but Castiel knows very well that Dean suffers from intense insomnia. The rest of the house is undisturbed, and Castiel is… a bit surprised. He had expected Dean to snoop around while Castiel was locked away, but the only difference Castiel can see is that the dishes that he’d left in the sink the night before had been washed, dried, and put back in their homes. A check in the laundry room shows that Dean had finished his own load, as well as folded the clothes Castiel had forgotten to take out of the dryer. The sweatshirt is missing.

Castiel doesn’t know what to do with the knowledge that Dean is attracted to him. Obviously, his baser instinct is to react, and be attracted to Dean in return. Castiel can’t lie to himself. Dean is incredibly handsome, and even though he has a clear illness, something about him draws Castiel in. Maybe it’s the playful glint he gets in his eyes sometimes. Maybe it’s the way he banters with Castiel. Maybe it’s the _thrill_ of it - the sheer adrenaline rush it would be to have an affair with a serial killer. 

If Dean is a serial killer.

Castiel spends the day researching the Golden Gardens killer. There’s nothing in any of the articles or police reports that even hint at Dean being the culprit. Then again, there’s really nothing that points to a culprit at all. Whoever it is covers their tracks with professional precision. Castiel thinks about Dean’s personality; he never does anything in halves. He might seem aloof and disconnected but Castiel has held eye contact with the man long enough to see a man full of commitment. He goes over some of his own personal notes about Dean from their sessions, connecting dates of Dean’s odd one-liners and dates of people either turning up missing or dead, and finds an obvious correlation. It could be coincidence. 

It could be Dean is a serial killer.

\--

“What did you decide to plant?” Castiel asks Dean during their next session.

“Bell peppers,” Dean says to the ceiling. 

Castiel nods. “When they come to harvest, will you cook with them?”

Dean shrugs. 

Castiel rests the tip of his pen on his notepad, eyes regarding Dean. The man is closed off as usual, and after his admittance of not killing anyone in almost a month, Castiel can see why their meetings have been so quiet recently. 

“Have you remained abstinent?”

Dean doesn’t reply, but his fingers twitch a little where they’re folded over his belly. 

“You may interpret that question as you like.”

“I’ve never had sex,” Dean says, no shame in his voice. 

Castiel shuffles some of his papers, finding Dean’s health file. “How do you cope with that at forty?”

“By killing people,” Dean says, with a bit of sass.

Castiel tries not to purse his lips. “But you have not killed in almost a month. So, Dean: At forty years old, if you are not killing people, how do you cope with your lack of sex life?”

“Comin’ here every Wednesday.”

“We do not have sex.”

“Don’t have to.”

“Do you find release when our appointments end?”

“No.”

Castiel rubs idly at the bridge of his nose. “Do you masturbate?”

“No.”

Humming, Castiel writes something down in the margin of his notepad. “Tonight I want you to masturbate.”

That makes Dean turn his head to regard Castiel silently, the weight of his emerald gaze pinning Castiel to his wing chair. Castiel doesn’t blink. “Why?”

“Perhaps if you find release, it can take the edge off.”

Dean frowns. “What makes you so sure?”

“If it doesn’t work you don’t have to try again,” Castiel says. “But I think it would be good for you in many ways. Have you ever pleasured yourself?”

Dean relaxes back against the couch again, staring at the ceiling. “No.”

Silence settles. Castiel doesn’t write anything else on his notepad. Dean doesn’t say anything else. The clock chimes.

Dean stands up, adjusting his flannel overshirt as he continues to refuse to meet Castiel’s gaze. “I’ll try it.”

“That is all I ask, Dean.” 

\--

The following Wednesday, Dean is a storm when he enters Castiel’s office. He’s clearly aggravated as he stomps inside, pacing in front of the velvet couch instead of sitting on it. He tugs on his hair a few times while Castiel remains seated in his own chair for observation, and then finally, Dean charges into Castiel’s space, raising a finger to point directly at the man from half a foot away. 

“ _You_ fucked it up.”

Castiel tries to remain neutral, even if Dean’s aggressive presence is raising his hackles. “How so?”

“I-” Dean turns his back on Castiel, tugging on the collar of his sweatshirt. The sweatshirt Castiel had let him borrow a few weeks ago. “I masturbated and it fucked things up.”

“Dean,” Castiel uses the calmest voice he can muster, “please have a seat. Would you like some water?”

Dean flops onto the couch, elbows on his knees and head in his hands. He doesn’t reply, but Castiel pours him a glass anyway, standing up to bring it over to the man. He stands in front of Dean’s hunched form, waiting to be acknowledged, full of infinite patience as usual. Finally, Dean straightens a little so he can look up at Castiel. He doesn’t take the glass.

“I killed again.”

Castiel wiggles the glass a little in front of Dean until the man grumbles and swipes it from him. “Because you masturbated?”

“Yes,” Dean says petulantly. He drinks all of the water in a few deep swallows, then pushes the empty glass back towards Castiel who accepts it without pause.

“I fail to see the connection.” Not that he’s ever seen a connection. Dean doesn’t really have a trigger, as far as Castiel can tell, that causes him to kill. If he kills.

Castiel has always been intuitive.

Dean is silent as he massages his temples, elbows resting on his knees again. Castiel walks away to put the glass back on the small beverage table and then seats himself in his chair once more, crossing his legs and lacing his fingers at his knee. 

Finally, Dean says, “I thought about you.”

Castiel stays quiet. 

“But I can’t have you.”

“So you killed someone?” 

“No-” Dean sounds pained. He sits back against the couch, and Castiel thinks this might be the first time Dean hasn’t laid down during a session. He lets out a breath, scratching blunt nails over the denim on his thighs. “No.”

“Why are you attracted to me?” Castiel asks plainly.

Dean’s gaze glance up towards Castiel’s face, almost… thoughtfully. Some of the storm clears from his eyes and there’s a flash of lucidity when Dean replies, “You’re beautiful.”

Castiel blinks slowly. A patient - a man - like Dean shouldn’t make butterflies squirm in Castiel’s stomach but here he is, shifting in his seat to uncross and recross his legs opposite. “There is lots of beauty in the world, Dean.” But Dean can’t see it. He’s a serial killer.

Dean shakes his head. “There’s really not.” 

“And yet you find me beautiful?”

“Yes.”

“Anything in particular about me that makes me beautiful?”

Castiel expects Dean to compliment his eyes, maybe his stubble or even his physique. But Dean’s response is measured, careful, and well thought out when he says, “Because you’re like me.”

The clock chimes.

Dean leaves before Castiel can reply.

\--

Castiel knows better than to let Dean’s words stick. But they do. Each consonant, every vowel has wound its way through Castiel’s insides, stamping his ribs, lungs, heart, making him think about what on Earth Dean could see about Castiel that makes him see a connection. Makes him see likeness. They are on such opposite ends of the spectrum it’s laughable. Dean, high school dropout with an obvious dissociation and personality disorder; Castiel, best psychoanalyst on the West Coast with a doctorate and more degrees than he can count on both hands.

Sanity doesn’t stop at education.

Castiel knows better.

Castiel could also never laugh at Dean. 

\--

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean doesn’t greet Castiel in return as he sits down on the purple couch, shifting so he can lie down. He laces his fingers over his stomach and closes his eyes, taking in a deep, measuring breath. Castiel allows him the quiet because he has a suspicion that this is the only peaceful place Dean knows. In the real world Dean is a professional in the auto industry, specializing in vintage car restorations. The shop he works at is often hectic, lots of testosterone and machismo flying around. Dean says he would be able to open his own restoration business, get a loan easily enough and be plenty successful, but he alluded to the fact that if he had no one to answer to, he wouldn’t get any work done. It’s an interesting notion, Castiel thinks, for a serial killer - someone who thinks so independently and acts entirely alone. Outside of that Dean lives in an apartment in the shadier part of town and rarely leaves his home unless he has errands to run.

Or goes off to kill someone.

And so, Castiel stays quiet, to allow Dean to gather his thoughts and come through the chaos of his mind. 

“Why are you single?”

It’s a question patients ask Castiel often; either out of curiosity, or for conversation. It’s a question that Castiel is used to answering almost with rehearsal, “Because my focus needs to be on my patients.”

“People you date get jealous?”

“In a way,” Castiel hums. “I often bring my work home with me so I can work on solutions even in my free time. I believe it’s part of what makes me so successful: the fact that even though this job is technically nine-to-five, I never actually clock out.”

“Been seeing you for four months,” Dean comments. He rolls onto his side and bends his arm to pillow his cheek close to his elbow. His eyes are on Castiel’s knees. Castiel makes a noise of acknowledgment. “How long do you normally see patients?”

“As long as they need. Everyone is different.”

“Different.”

“Yes.”

“Like me?”

“Not quite like you.”

“No one’s like me.”

“No one is like anyone. We are all beautifully unique.”

Dean snorts. “You got other serial killers on your attendance sheet?”

Castiel steeples his fingers, elbows on the arms of his chair. “I do not.”

“So I’m unique.”

“We’ve established this.”

Dean huffs a little sigh, brows furrowing. Castiel’s knees feel hot where Dean’s gaze bores. “Why don’t you turn me in?”

“Because I am not sure if I really believe that you are a killer,” Castiel says. But oh, he’s known since the moment he laid eyes on Dean Winchester.

Green eyes meet blue. Castiel’s heart thumps in his chest. “Why?”

Castiel tries to seem indifferent, “You are a complex man, Dean Winchester. I’m unsure if it is within you to degrade yourself into such violence.”

Another frown. “Is that you’re way of callin’ me smart?”

Castiel smiles small. “I suppose so.”

“I ain’t smart,” Dean huffs again, falling onto his back to stare at the ceiling again. “I’m a killer.”

“Would you like me to call the police?”

“No.”

“Because you don’t want to get caught?”

“Because if they take me away, I can’t see you anymore.”

“Then I won’t call the police. Your secret is safe with me.”

Dean levels Castiel with a measuring gaze. Obviously, if Dean Winchester really is the Golden Gardens killer, Castiel is breaking quite a few laws by not turning him in. After all, Dean has confessed, and even sought Castiel out for help on that stormy night. Castiel would be crazy to not hand him over to the cops.

Maybe Castiel is a little crazy.

“Thanks, doc.”

\--

It's three Wednesdays later that Castiel brings up the Golden Gardens killings. As a rule he never mentions them first - if this is all indeed an elaborate fantasy borne of mania, he doesn't want to feed into it. But Dean actually hasn't said anything about them either, and Castiel watches the news nightly, and he has a question.

“Have you stopped killing again, Dean?”

Dean, lying comfortable as usual, opens his eyes to look at the ceiling. “Yeah.”

“Why?”

Dean twiddles his thumbs a few times. “Don’t wanna get caught.”

“You were doing very well at avoiding any suspicion,” Castiel says. It's almost a compliment. 

“Remember when you said you wouldn't turn me in?”

“I do.”

“I thought- what if I made a mistake? What if the cops got to me anyway and I got carted off?” Dean’s brow furrows. “I wouldn't be able to see you anymore.”

Nodding slowly, Castiel smooths his tie down his chest. “So you have quit.”

“For now. Gotta let everything simmer down a bit before I start again.”

“You could just stop for good.”

“No.”

“What if I asked you to?”

Dean’s head whips to the side so he can look at Castiel. It's a cheap trick to pull, but he's curious as to the effect his words have on Dean. Just how much does Dean value Castiel’s thoughts and opinions? For five months Dean has lain on Castiel’s couch - talked to him, listened to him, and even followed instructions. Does Castiel actually have any hold over Dean Winchester?

After a tense moment of Dean staring into Castiel’s eyes he relents, returning back to his reclined position on the couch.

“I could try.” A pause. “For you.”

\--

Dean’s lips are a sin. Castiel fucks his cock into Dean’s throat without mercy, reveling in the groans, the tears, the heat. Castiel flutters his fingers over Dean’s features in the most tender of caresses; loving, owning. Dean is pliant and agreeable when Castiel pinches his nose shut with his fingers and Dean cums over his own hand and Castiel spills his load down Dean’s waiting throat- 

Castiel opens his eyes. He's tangled in his bedding, having clearly slept fitfully. He's hot all over as he sits up and throws the blankets off of his body, staring down at his stained boxers in consternation.

He's never had a wet dream about a patient before.

He's never wanted to fuck a serial killer.

Later on in the day, as if summoned, Dean Winchester knocks on Castiel’s door to interrupt his day off.

“It is highly inappropriate that we see each other outside of my office, Dean.”

Dean has his hands shoved in the pockets of his (clean) jeans. “I know. I um. Wanted to show you something. Free for a ride?”

Castiel looks over Dean’s shoulder to the car he built from the ground up parked at the curb. After only a moment's thought Castiel nods. “Let me put on some warmer clothes.”

Dean doesn't drive like a maniac. He goes the speed limit, uses his signals, and even allows cars to merge ahead of him on the freeway. He's turning off I-5 and merging onto 405 North when Castiel finally glances over.

“Where are we going?”

Dean wrings the steering wheel idly with his fingers. “Can’t say.” He seems to be a little dressed up; nicer jeans, long sleeved red flannel button down that looks like it’s only seen a few wears.

“Can’t, or won't?” 

“Both.”

Castiel accepts. Dean's car smells like leather and cologne and Castiel feels special to be riding shotgun. As far as he knows, Dean doesn't have a lot of people to drive around with, even though taking a drive is one of Dean’s favorite way to let off steam. Dean turns off at an exit Castiel wouldn't be able to remember if he tried; the last time he came this far North was to take the ferry to Kingston for a night of gambling with his cousin. That had been about five years ago.

The road winds a bit before heading further North, away from the hubbub. The beautiful Pacific Northwest: in the city at one moment, out in the forest the next. Castiel has the vague notion that he should be terrified - he’s in the same car as Dean Winchester, self-proclaimed Golden Gardens killer, allowing himself to be driven into the vastness of lush green lands.

He isn't afraid at all.

More winding roads, eventually a dirt one, and then Dean pulls his car off to the side of the road. The last hint of civilization had been a horse farm ten miles back, and out here Castiel can tell it's wildland.

“Gotta hike,” Dean says as he pockets his keys and exits the car.

The doors creak as they shut and Castiel falls into step with Dean, who leads them into the brush. There's no obvious foot path, not even animal crossings, and Castiel wonders how Dean knows where he's going. He had mentioned before that he used to hunt with his father when he was a teen - before drink took both his parents - so maybe he had also picked up some survival skills. 

Or maybe Dean is a serial killer and had to pick up odds and ends of wilderness survival in order to cover his tracks and keep himself safe.

They walk for about an hour and a half before Dean finally stops. Castiel is barely winded, but he's sticky with humidity and sweat. He glances around the glade and sees nothing of importance, at first. Lots of trees. Lots of brush.

“I didn't want to get caught,” Dean says, echoing his words from their session the other day. “So I moved them.”

“Moved what?” Castiel asks before thinking about it.

“The bodies.”

Castiel looks around again. There's some freshly turned dirt and underbrush, and he nods towards it. “There?”

“Yeah,” Dean scrubs his palm over his mouth. “I can’t be the Golden Gardens killer anymore.”

“Is this…” Castiel takes a step towards where Dean claims bodies are buried. Pauses. “Is this you telling me you're quitting?”

“Even if people find these bodies out here, they can't tie ‘em to me.”

Castiel finishes moving towards the freshly turned Earth. He kneels, using a hand to brush away foliage, and then starts digging. Dean doesn't stop him. Castiel has to know. Needs to know.

He uncovers a delicate wrist and hand, fingers manicured, wedding ring looking like it weighs half a pound.

Cold. Pallid.

Dead.

“How many are here?” 

“Seven.”

“How many have you killed total?”

Dean doesn’t reply at first. The wetness of the ground starts seeping through Castiel’s pants and he carefully re-buries the hand he’d uncovered, standing up to brush debris off of his jeans. He turns to look at Dean, who is staring without really seeing at the burial ground. 

“Thirty-four.”

Castiel tries not to let the number surprise him. It doesn’t, really. But hearing Dean say it out loud - learning that Dean _is_ (was) the Golden Gardens killer - it’s an entirely new ballgame. Castiel thinks about calling the cops, but realizes that he doesn’t actually want to do that. Looking at Dean, the man’s hands shoved into his pockets self-consciously, shoulders hunched slightly, Castiel sees…

Beauty.

“Why are you showing me this?” Castiel asks.

Dean raises his eyes up to Castiel; the surrounding forest makes them look greener than ever, ethereal. Stunning. “Because you’re like me.”

Castiel crosses the space between them in three long strides, grabbing Dean by the scruff of his collar and hauling him up, shoving him against the rough bark of a tree. Fury washes through Castiel’s veins as he gives Dean’s body a violent shake, gaze narrowed, encroaching on every millimeter of personal space Dean usually keeps to himself. “I am _not_ like you,” he snarls.

Dean lets out a slightly pitched laugh, his hands out to his side in surrender, even as his gaze challenges Castiel. “Convince me.”

Grip tightening enough to wrinkle Dean’s shirt, Castiel feels the fury boil down to a low simmering rage. “What makes you think we’re so alike?”

“Look at yourself,” Dean snaps, humor gone from his expression. “What are you going to do to me?”

Castiel thinks of Dean choking on his cock, thinks of closing off his airways. His body flashes hot. He crowds Dean’s space even more, his breath washing over Dean’s ear as he replies lowly, “Nothing.”

He lets go of Dean’s collar and takes a step back. Dean collapses to his knees on the soft ground and takes in a few breaths, looking up at Castiel through his lashes as he licks his lips and sends up the smallest of smirks. “For now.”

Castiel calms himself by closing his eyes and flexing his fists at his sides. Maybe he’s not so different from Dean. He hears Dean stand up and smack his jeans to clear them and when Castiel opens his eyes Dean is already starting to walk back towards the car. Castiel follows quietly, thinking about his momentary loss of control. How good it felt to see the fear flash in Dean’s eyes when he cornered him. The power he felt.

The walk back to the car takes another hour and a half and once they reach it, they get in quietly. Dean doesn’t start it right away, putting his keys in the ignition and then running his hands over the curve of the steering wheel. Calming himself still, it seems. 

“Dean,” Castiel finally says. “I apologize for my actions earlier. That was very inappropriate.”

Dean snorts, finally turning the keys in the ignition. Instead of making a three-point turn to flip a u-ey he punches the gas and cranks the gear shift to peel out, spinning a brodie to turn the car around so they can head back towards civilization. Castiel grips the Oh Shit handle reflexively but otherwise doesn’t say anything, rather impressed at Dean’s ability to control this beast of a car like that. After a few minutes of silence, Dean finally speaks.

“Don’t apologize. That’s what I wanted you to do.”

Castiel can’t help but smile wryly, “Who is therapizing who?”

“I been helpin’ you the minute I walked into your office,” Dean says confidently. Brazenly.

Castiel looks over at the other man. Beautiful. “How so?”

Dean doesn’t meet his gaze. “Makin’ you realize you’re like me.”

Castiel still isn’t sure what Dean means by that. Then again, Dean just showed him his personal graveyard and Castiel had barely bat an eye at it. Are they really so different? Are their lifestyles the only thing that separates them? After all, Castiel had come very close to choking Dean. Strangling him. Hurting him.

Dean curses when he accidentally hits a toll bridge heading back towards Castiel’s house. Castiel offers to give Dean the cash when they return, since he hadn’t brought his wallet (rookie mistake. What if Dean had killed him? Castiel didn’t have his identification on him for police to identify his body in a timely manner), but Dean grumbles and brushes the offer off without much fuss. He pulls up to Castiel’s curb and leaves the car idling; Castiel pauses with his hand on the door handle, looking over at Dean.

“Thank you, Dean.”

“Fr’what.” Dean grumbles.

“For quitting. I know it took a lot for you to do it.”

Dean’s knuckles go white over the steering wheel before they relax, and he turns a small smile over towards Castiel. Belatedly, Castiel realizes that today is the first time that he’s ever seen a friendly, warm expression on Dean’s features. 

“I did it for you.”

Castiel exits the car. Dean drives away, and Castiel watches his car get smaller down the road until the bend and the trees blocks him from sight. Castiel looks down at his stained knees and turns to head into his house, reflecting. 

He can feel his relationship with Dean going off the rails, and yet… he has no desire to put it back on track. No, he definitely wants to see what happens. This could be a wonderful learning experience.

Or the biggest mistake of his life.

Good thing he has plenty of Spray n’ Wash.

\--

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean walks past the couch and heads towards Castiel, reaching down to grab the clipboard out of the doctor’s hands and toss it aside so Dean can perch himself on Castiel’s lap. Castiel’s arms are out to the side in mild surprise, hands hovering, the weight of Dean’s body on his lap… delicious. 

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” Dean breathes, his hands sliding over Castiel’s shoulders to lace his fingers at the base of his neck. His knees between Castiel’s hips and the sides of the chair pin Castiel in quite nicely.

Castiel stays quiet, leaving his hands out safely to the side.

“Every time I touch myself,” Dean’s body rolls. He’s solid and thick and a whole lotta man and Castiel does his best to not let himself get overwhelmed by his presence, “I think of you.” He’s hard.

Castiel feels his own body reacting similarly. He still doesn’t touch the other man, “Dean.”

“ _Please_ ,” Dean’s voice comes out as a whine, something Castiel has never heard before. “It’s no good by myself. I can’t-” he licks his lips and rolls his body down again. “I need you.”

Castiel had known that instructing Dean to masturbate to relieve tension would have varying results, and even this one had been on the radar. Castiel always thinks about every line of direction whenever he suggests something… out of the box, for his patients to try. He had an inkling sensation that Dean would center his thoughts of arousal around the one person in the world who isn’t against him. He’s not entirely surprised it’s come to this; and maybe only a little bit pleased.

“My instructions were for you to find release, Dean,” Castiel says.

Dean huffs. His skin is hot, hands clammy where they’re cupping the back of Castiel’s neck. “I can’t. I get so close- I get _so close_ but it’s not enough and I…” he licks his lips again, the pink flesh shining under the soft lighting in the room. “ _Please_ , doc.”

“What would you have me do that you cannot?” Castiel asks with genuine curiosity. He still doesn’t touch.

“Hurt me,” Dean pleads. Castiel is reminded of the first night Dean showed up on his doorstep, bloodied because he’d been looking for a fight - searching for penance. “Hit me. Choke me. Do _something_.”

“Why?” Castiel prompts, even as he’s becoming more and more affected by Dean’s submissiveness. 

“Because only you can,” Dean breathes. 

The dam breaks. Castiel grabs Dean’s hands from the back of his neck and twists his arms around his body, bending his elbows behind him and pinning his arms and hands against his back as he jerks the man’s body forward to smash their mouths together. Their teeth clack and noses smush but soon they gain traction and coordination, Dean melting under Castiel’s mouth, weakening, desperate. Castiel is consuming, wildfire scorching through his veins and lighting Dean up and when Dean rolls his hips down again Castiel twists his arms in warning, causing the other man to whine. 

Castiel thinks he growls, but he’s not sure. It’s been a few years since he’s been intimate with anyone, but he won’t consider himself out of practice. He especially doesn’t have anything to worry about when Dean, a _virgin_ , is writhing on his lap begging for release. Dean gives a hesitant roll of his hips again and Castiel allows it, this time, and then Dean is moving with more finesse, more direction, more purpose. Castiel knows it can’t be comfortable for Dean to have his cock trapped in his pants but Castiel won’t take it out, won’t give the man any reprieve. Dean doesn’t even really seem to mind, satisfied with their locked lips. Castiel blazes a trail down Dean’s jaw and then sinks his teeth into the flesh of Dean’s neck; his fingers tighten their hold on Dean’s forearms, likely to leave behind marks, and when Dean finally finds release he does his best to muffle his cry, which sounds more like a sob, and Castiel feels a hot tear drip over his temple from where he’s positioned in the crook of Dean’s neck.

Quiet.

Stillness.

Castiel lets go of Dean’s arms and is tempted to rub the soreness from them, but resists when Dean lets them fall to his side. _Hurt me_ , he had said. Castiel did. It takes a few moments for Dean to gather his bearings and when he does he climbs off of Castiel’s lap with shaky limbs, looking all sorts of ravished. Castiel’s eyes drop to the wet spot on the front of Dean’s jeans; Dean shifts a little and rubs his wrists, his eyes on Castiel’s lap where the doctor’s erection is tenting his slacks.

“You should leave,” Castiel says.

Dean’s gaze snaps up to his face, hurt flashing over his features. No- that’s not the hurt that Castiel wanted to cause. Standing up, Castiel moves over to Dean, lifting his hands to cup the man’s jaw and wipe his thumbs over the tear tracks staining his cheeks. First orgasm after forty years of living… no wonder Dean seems like he’s outside of his body.

“Can you drive?”

Dean drops his gaze, but doesn’t move away from Castiel’s hold. “Yeah. In a minute.”

Nodding, Castiel lets go of Dean and bends to pick up his clipboard. He takes a moment to straighten the papers before he sets the clipboard down on the desk, unbuttoning the cuffs of his sleeves and starting to roll them up his forearms. “Would you consider stopping your therapy sessions?”

He can feel Dean’s fur raise. “What?”

“I believe,” Castiel says as he turns around, resting against his desk and folding his arms loosely over his chest, “that my services to you have evolved. I would rather not continue our sessions in my office.”

Dean looks at Castiel warily, unsure. “... Off the record?”

Castiel glances down at his clipboard, “You have let go of your vice.” Killing. “You are finding a way to function better in society.” Sex. “I believe my professional services have been completed. I will have my secretary contact your insurance so that you can comfortably handle payment. However, henceforth: I would like to see you at my home every Saturday.”

Dean hesitates. It’s clear he’s unsure about the turn of events, and he’s still clearly reeling from euphoria. “You still want to see me.”

Castiel offers the smallest of smiles, hoping to get his assurance across. “I do. But not like this.”

Dean wrings his hands, his wrists, presses his fingers into the light marks seared into his skin in the shape of Castiel’s fingers. After a moment, he says, “Ok. Saturday.”

“Have a good day, Dean.”

Dean leaves. Castiel runs a hand through his hair. 

He knows insanity isn’t contagious, but he has a feeling that putting himself in Dean’s presence for extended amounts of time will be… detrimental. 

But he can’t stop.

Dean had given up his vice, and Castiel had gained a new one.

\--

Dean comes over on Saturday. Castiel answers the door wearing jeans and a tshirt and Dean looks pretty much everywhere but at Castiel as he steps inside.

“Take your shoes off,” Castiel instructs. “Get comfortable.”

A little snort comes from the back of Dean’s throat and he does as told, following Castiel into the living room. There’s a scented candle burning on the coffee table and Castiel sits on his couch comfortably, taking his glasses off of his nose and leaving them folded in his hand as Dean sits against the opposite arm.

“How was your week?” 

Dean stares at his knee, picks idly at the denim. “Fine.”

“The media has stopped talking about the Golden Gardens killer,” Castiel prompts.

“Good.”

“Good,” Castiel echoes. “Do you miss it?”

Dean looks up at Castiel through his lashes. Oh, he’s beautiful. “Kinda.”

“Will you ever do it again?”

Green eyes avert to where the flame is flickering, crackling the wood wick. “Not if you didn’t want me to.”

Castiel raises a brow. “Why would I _want_ you to kill again?”

“‘Cause you’re like me.” 

Again.

Castiel takes in a few measured breaths, “I… suppose we share some similarities.”

Silence.

Dean shifts a little. “What uh, are we gonna do here that we can’t do in the office?”

Castiel reaches to the coffee table to pick up the glass of ice water he’d been sipping before Dean’s arrival. The ice clinks as Castiel takes a sip, and he finally looks over at Dean as he answers, “Sex.” 

Dean’s brows shoot up and he takes a moment to register the word before he nods slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I uh- I mean. I kinda lost control the other day…”

“You never lose control,” Castiel quips. “But when you do, Dean… It’s lovely.”

A flush rises high on Dean’s cheeks. “I dunno.”

Castiel sets his glass back down on the table. “Come here.”

Dean acquiesces without second thought, shifting to move over and straddle Castiel’s lap. This time Castiel’s hands rest on Dean’s thighs, palms broad and fingers spread as Dean settles. Their eyes lock and Dean is still blushing prettily, the freckles on his features standing out magnificently. 

“If I asked you to kill for me,” Castiel murmurs, drawing Dean closer so he can breathe against the shell of the slightly taller man’s ear, “would you?”

Dean shudders at the feel of Castiel’s breath, but he nods. “I would do anything for you.”

“Anything,” Castiel hums, sliding his palms up towards Dean’s torso, fingers starting to work on the buttons of his flannel. “Because I’m like you?”

Dean nods. Castiel finishes unbuttoning his flannel and slides it off of his shoulders, allowing it to drop to the floor. His hands then move to the hem of Dean’s undershirt, pushing it up slightly. Dean is hard muscle, nothing soft about him, thick with years of physical labor and the gym he frequents three times a week. He’s in tip top shape and as Castiel greedily touches over his ribs, his abs, Castiel knows it’s better this way - so none of Dean’s victims can get the upper hand on him.

“How do you do it?” Castiel asks against the juncture of collarbone and shoulder. 

“Strangulation,” Dean whispers.

Castiel pulls his shirt up and over his head, tossing it aside. He thumbs over Dean’s perky nipples and then pinches them, hard, reveling in the surprised moan that rips through Dean’s lips. “You don’t like weapons?”

Dean shakes his head. “Too much mess.”

Toying with Dean’s nipples for a few seconds longer, Castiel starts kissing over his collarbone, enjoying the way that Dean’s spine arches inwards to try and seek the pain blooming under Castiel’s tenuous fingers. This is intoxicating. Castiel has a _murderous_ man on his lap, submitting to his will, his touches, trusting him with his pleasure and his penance. Castiel isn’t dumb. If Dean chose, he could easily gain the upperhand and decimate Castiel without struggle. Castiel is pretty fit himself, but nothing like the Adonis god before him. Dean probably wouldn’t even break a sweat killing Castiel.

It’s… exhilarating. 

“Do you still want me to hurt you?” Castiel asks. He’s not a monster. Neither is Dean. Consent is critical. He doesn’t want Dean to put _too_ much trust into him - doesn’t want that trust to be misplaced. Castiel will hurt Dean, but he won’t damage him. Not any more than he already is. 

“Please,” Dean’s voice is soft, touched out. Castiel’s fingers on his bare skin is obviously something that registers as almost cataclysmic, and if playing with his nipples gets him this wrecked, Castiel can’t wait to fuck him.

In due time. 

“Kneel.”

Dean scrambles to get off Castiel’s lap, his back bumping into the coffee table as he kneels between it and the couch. Castiel stands and reaches around Dean to gently scoot the furniture back a little so Dean doesn’t break something, before he straightens up and looks down at Dean - beautiful, beautiful Dean, with killer hands and murderous lips. 

“Are you hard?” Castiel asks. Dean nods, licking and biting at his lower lip. “Show me.”

With shaking fingers Dean undoes his belt, leaving it in the loops as he undoes the fastenings of his jeans next, peeling the fly open and reaching into the slit of his boxers to pull out his cock. Oh, it’s beautiful. Uncut, untouched, and all for Castiel. Only for Castiel. Drunk on ownership Castiel licks his lips and has to count backwards from ten to keep himself under control. This is a gift. 

Dean Winchester is a gift.

“Good,” Castiel finally speaks, praising, his voice thick. Dean seems to preen a little; he’s still just holding his cock, not stroking or caressing - displaying it for Castiel. It’s red with arousal, the head still hidden by foreskin, and Castiel does his best to keep his voice even as he pops the button on his own jeans. “Very good, Dean.”

When Castiel pulls his aching cock free, letting his jeans and boxers sit on his thighs, he notes every expression that flies through Dean’s eyes. Wonder. Awe. A little bit of intimidation. In this position, on his knees in front of Castiel’s weeping cock, Dean is inexperienced but he isn’t stupid. Castiel jerks his cock a few times, letting Dean’s eyes drag over the way the velvety skin pulls with each stroke, and then Castiel drops his hands to his sides before clasping them behind his back, not really trusting them out in the open for this next step.

“Suck.”

For a moment, Dean hesitates. Not because he doesn’t want to comply, but probably because he’s unsure exactly how to follow up that command. He shuffles forward a bit on his knees, letting go of his cock and reaching up to slide his palms up the backs of Castiel’s thighs, grounding himself, bringing the prize closer to his face with a slight lean. Dean’s breath puffs over the head of Castiel’s cock and then he licks it with the flat of his tongue, slow, deliberate, tasting. His tongue disappears into his mouth for a swallow, and then he’s glancing up at Castiel through his lashes as he wets his lips and then takes Castiel in his mouth. The slide is a little dry because Dean’s lips aren’t wet enough, but it’s ok, because his tongue is dancing and his eyes are closing as he _feels_ Castiel.

He murders Castiel with his mouth.

Castiel finally moves a hand to card his fingers into Dean’s hair before he grips it tight, a little painful, Dean looking up at him with watery eyes. Castiel keeps Dean’s head still with his grip and thrusts his hips forward experimentally; Dean gags a little but then he takes a deep breath through his nose and does his best to relax, lashes fluttering, freckles constellations. He wants so badly to fuck into Dean’s skull like he did in that tantalizing wet dream, but this is just as well and good - his hips rock slow, he keeps his grip tight, and Dean allows it. 

“Touch yourself,” Castiel breathes.

Dean complies.

Castiel thrusts a little harder, a little deeper, relishing the way Dean’s throat constricts around him in a gag. He pulls out so Dean can gasp for breath and lick his lips, wetting them further, chin shiny with spit. This is better than the dream. Dean is everything Castiel never had the guts to imagine.

He pulls his cock free only for Dean to chase after it hungrily. Fire rips through Castiel’s body at the visual - Dean, virginal Dean, already addicted to the taste of Castiel’s dick. Gorgeous. Castiel grips the base of his erection and smears the spongy head over Dean’s cheekbones, feeling the masculine frame beneath soft features. Dean’s eyes flutter as he allows Castiel to desecrate him with spit and precum, and then Castiel is sliding his cock past Dean’s lips once more, Dean much more eager about swallowing him down. This time when Castiel thrusts Dean gags but doesn’t recoil, moves his hands up to Castiel’s exposed ass to grip the flesh and encourage him to thrust deeper. There’s no way Dean can deep throat - not for now - but they can work up to it, and in any case, what Castiel is getting at this very moment is still… perfect.

Castiel’s grip in Dean’s hair tightens again, yanking his head back and tilting it so he can look up at Castiel. Dean looks wrecked. Castiel jerks his cock with his free hand until his orgasm sweeps through him and paints pretty pearl tendrils over Dean’s freckles and eyelashes, and then Castiel lets go of Dean, watching him slump and pant. The cum doesn’t slide off of his skin - it stays where planted, and Castiel really wants to take a photo but his phone is all the way in the kitchen. 

Dean’s cock is still hard and leaking. He’s holding it, but not stroking or jerking to find release.

Castiel does up his pants and then sits back on the couch gracefully, spreading his arms on either side of the back behind him. He looks at Dean through dark eyes, “Make yourself cum.”

The way Dean strokes himself reminds Castiel a lot of the first times he’d jerked off as a young teen. Little finesse, just chasing after the pleasure that curls and feels so, so very good and new. It doesn’t take long for Dean to make a mess of himself and Castiel has the vague notion that it’s a little… cute, that Dean’s stamina is basically at zero. Something they can work on together. 

Castiel reaches out for Dean, who grips at his forearms and allows the doctor to haul him up onto his lap. Cradling Dean against his chest Castiel presses a chaste kiss to sandy blond hair, runs his hands over Dean’s back, this nurturing and care a far cry from the way he’d been practically abusing Dean’s mouth just five minutes ago. But Dean melts into it, relishes it. They stay like that for a few moments before Castiel taps the outside of Dean’s thigh; the man gets off of his lap on weak legs, and Castiel hums.

“I’ll start a load of laundry.”

\--

The following Saturday when Dean comes over, Castiel has lunch waiting. Dean seems a bit wary about the sandwich spread on the table; freshly sliced meats and cheeses, cut vegetables, and condiments in glass jars. 

“I recall at some point you telling me that you don’t take the time to eat healthier,” Castiel says.

Dean sits down in a chair next to the table, frowning slightly. “Why would you do this for me?”

“I am very interested in your wellbeing, Dean.” Castiel sits opposite, grabbing two slices of bread and putting them on the plate in front of him. He unscrews the mayonnaise while he talks, “Does that come as a surprise to you?”

“You’re not my shrink anymore,” Dean grumbles, even as he reaches out to grab some bread for himself. 

“You may still lay your troubles upon me,” Castiel says, working on spreading condiments evenly over his bread. 

“Ain’t got no troubles now,” Dean replies gruffly. He’s less graceful as he slaps mayonnaise and extra mustard on his bread. 

Castiel hums softly as he ribbons sliced turkey breast in a stack, “Are all your troubles gone because you’ve stopped killing?”

Dean shrugs, immaturely refusing to answer. He never has been overly talkative; in fact, sometimes Castiel feels as though he’s talking to a brick wall. The only thing is that while Dean pretends to be disinterested in the conversation… he’s absorbing every word, committing every thought and suggestion. He may not give much in verbal reply, but he has always been receptive of Castiel’s tendency to fill the air between them. 

“Today you are here to relax,” Castiel says. He neatly layers cucumber slices atop the turkey. Rows of three, nine total. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

Dean is much faster in his sandwich building, and Castiel didn’t even fully see everything he loaded on to his bread. But his sandwich is thick and tall, so Castiel will at least approve of the fact that Dean came with an appetite. “No sex?”

“Only if you want it.”

“I do,” Dean says, holding his sandwich in the air as he frowns at it. “But not right now.”

Castiel manages a chuckle. “No, now we eat.”

As if Dean had been waiting for permission, he takes a huge, inelegant bite of his sandwich. It crunches, which lets Castiel know that he had at least put vegetables on it, and then they eat in companionable silence. Castiel only gets up once to grab two glasses and a pitcher of lemonade, bringing them to the table to serve himself and Dean. Eating takes no longer than ten minutes and then Castiel stands up, starting to re-screw lids and seal up baggies. Dean stands as well, quietly moving to help; in the kitchen Castiel lets Dean navigate himself and figure out what goes where, and he does so with surprising accuracy. Dean’s memory has always been pretty much infallible.

Castiel thinks about that distant glade in the woods that Dean had traversed to on memory alone. 

The rest of the day is spent on Castiel’s couch watching Netflix - Dean had started out sitting against the opposite arm of the couch, but as episode after episode of Dr. Sexy progresses he gravitates towards Castiel, eventually ending up snuggled into the man’s side. Castiel drapes the blanket on the back of the couch around Dean’s shoulders and recognizes this for what it is - Dean is _not_ a physically affectionate person. He never has been. When Castiel learned that he was a killer it had surprised him in a way it shouldn’t have: because it meant that Dean was touching people. 

But Dean had been touching people with purpose.

With intent.

And sex with Dean - well, that had also been with purpose and intent. 

Sitting here snuggled up together like they’re just a regular couple enjoying a dreary Saturday indoors is one hundred percent outside of Dean’s realm.

Yet, here he is. 

Dean even manages a nap, another surprise.

A treasure.

\--

Dean has been in Castiel’s orbit for almost a year, now. Sometimes they have sex - non-penetrative, because Castiel won’t cross that bridge until Dean asks - sometimes they don’t. But every time, he hurts Dean. Slaps him, chokes him, makes him cry. Sometimes they talk; sometimes Dean actually participates in conversation. Castiel learns that outside of working at the repair shop Dean doesn’t do much. Now that he’s not killing. His bell pepper garden has grown into tomatoes as well, and Dean reveals that he’s got a small grill he likes to make burgers on and utilize his fresh toppings. Instead of only coming over on Saturdays, Dean starts coming over whenever he so feels like it, as long as Castiel is home. That eventually translates Dean into being in Castiel’s home more often than not: he’s got a toothbrush in the bathroom, an extra pair of shoes at the door, and his favorite leather jacket hanging on the coat hook. 

Castiel still works at the office. He still sees patients every single day, but none of them are like Dean. Some of them have such superficial problems, and Castiel knows it’s not in his right to judge - he didn’t go to school to look down his nose at people - but none of them have problems that stem as deep as Dean’s. 

No one has roots like Dean.

Castiel is still highly regarded in the community. He still attends charities and auctions and balls, and it’s on a Tuesday night, Castiel sitting at the kitchen table with his laptop and Dean moving around in the kitchen making breakfast for dinner, that Castiel’s phone rings.

“Dr. Novak speaking,” he greets without checking the caller ID.

“Good evening, Clarence.”

“Meg,” Castiel takes his glasses off and sets them down, leaning back in his chair to get away from the glare of his laptop screen. “To what do I owe the inconvenience?”

“The Winter ball is coming up,” Meg says with quite a bit of smugness in her voice. “I noticed you haven’t R.S.V.P.’d yet.”

“Looking at the guest list is beneath you,” Castiel says idly. Meg has this wonderful ability to tire him out within seconds of talking to him. 

“Aw,” she feigns a pout. “I just figured you hadn’t put your name down yet because you don’t have a date.”

“You would be correct,” Castiel concedes.

“Wanna do the usual routine? You pretend to wine and dine me, I pretend to be the pretty doctor lady friend on your arm, and then we go back to your house for a good time?”

Even though he’s unable to hear the other side of the conversation, Dean is looking at Castiel with a small frown. Perhaps he can tell that Castiel is mildly annoyed - an emotion that doesn’t happen often at all. 

“Actually, Meg.” An idea occurs to Castiel. He turns to look at Dean measuringly - the man blushes prettily and returns to stirring the hashbrowns. “I do have a date, but I have yet to ask them.”

“Wow, you haven’t asked and yet you sound so sure that they’ll accompany you,” Meg’s voice is dripping with sarcastic wonder. “Your modesty is truly an art.”

“Thank you for your concern, Meg. I’m sure you will find someone else to attend with. I will see you in two weeks,” Castiel ends the call without waiting for her snarky reply, setting his phone down on the table. “Dean.”

Dean makes an acknowledging noise as he turns the burner down and starts gathering plates out of the cupboard. 

“Would you like to attend the Winter Charity Ball with me?”

Dean’s shoulders turn rigid, and he slows in bringing the plates down. When he turns around to bring them to the table his lips are pressed together in a thin line - a shame, because they’re so beautiful and full otherwise - and when his hands are empty he wrings them slightly, staring at Castiel’s chest. “Why.”

Castiel smiles beatifically, “Because I need a date.”

“Why me?” Dean repeats.

“You are welcome to decline, Dean. If you do not wish to go, I will attend stag. It’s an event that I need to be at, and not the worst party of the year.”

Dean’s gaze flicks up to Castiel’s, measuring the softness in the man’s face. Obviously he’s trying to see if he will get in trouble for declining, but Castiel knows that Dean is well aware that Castiel would never, ever put the other man in a situation that he was uncomfortable with. He has yet to do so, after all. 

“Do I gotta wear a suit?”

Castiel nods.

Dean’s jaw tenses and he turns around to move back into the kitchen, “Fine.”

“Thank you, Dean,” Castiel says warmly.

This is an unexpected development, the prospect of going public with Dean. Only his secretary knew that Dean Winchester was seeing Dr. Castiel Novak as a patient, and she won’t utter a word edgewise about it. Castiel is sort of itching to show Dean off, anyway. He can only imagine how good the man will look all dressed up.

He can only imagine how good it will be undressing him afterwards.

\--

Dean cleans up incredibly well, unsurprisingly. Castiel helps him choose a suit to rent and it takes every ounce of control he has to not pin Dean down on his hands and knees on the showroom floor and take him apart with his mouth. Dean had said he would allow Castiel to choose the suit, but Dean insisted on paying. He usually does pay for his own things - even groceries, at Castiel’s behest, which he thinks is silly because Dean is mostly in Castiel’s kitchen - clearly not wanting to be in the doctor’s debt for any reason.

Castiel understands and respects Dean’s need for independence. 

It's not like they're boyfriends. 

Dean hates the suit. He hates the slacks, he hates the button down, he hates the vest and the bowtie and the jacket. But he looks good in all black and at Castiel’s house where they're getting ready to go he keeps catching Dean by the waist to press kisses to the back of his neck, his hair, the shell of his ear.

“You're so handsome,” Castiel says on the fifth stolen kiss.

Dean flushes from the compliment but grumbles a thanks. Castiel’s suit is similar to Dean’s; his kerchief in his breast pocket is green, Dean’s blue. He had chosen them on purpose. He doesn't think strangers will make the connection between them, but he will be thinking about it all night. And in any case, Dean has definitely caught the meaning because he keeps fingering idly at the material.

“A car is going to pick us up,” Castiel says as he straightens Dean’s bowtie. His fingers smooth over the broad span of Dean’s shoulders, “Just be yourself.”

Dean petulantly rolls his eyes, “We know how far that gets me.”

“Yes. Third base, to be precise.” Castiel replies.

“I dunno,” Dean shifts his weight a little, staring at Castiel’s windsor knot. “You sure this ain't outta my league?”

“Of course it is,” Castiel tilts Dean’s chin up with his finger to force him to make eye contact. “But Dean, you underestimate yourself.”

The defiance in Dean’s eyes is breathtaking. “I ain't rich like you.”

“No matter,” Castiel draws Dean in for the softest of kisses. “You don't need to talk to anyone you don't wish to. You can stay by the catering table all night with your mouth full of food to avoid people, if you like.”

“Why are you bringing me, Cas?” Dean asks, true confusion in his voice, trust in his eyes.

“Because I believe you can handle it.”

Dean clearly doesn't believe that, but since Castiel does, he relents.

The car that picks them up is sleek and black and computerized, and they get into the backseat quietly. Castiel has to give a speech so he's flipping through some note cards that will be tucked into the breast pocket of his blazer later, more for something to do with his hands than to actually make sure he has his keynotes memorized. Dean isn't very fidgety, probably because Castiel’s reassuring words usually soothe him like a balm. Castiel isn't worried in the slightest about the entrance they'll make, because he knows it will be grand; Dr. Castiel Novak has never had another man on his arm before.

Sure enough, when the car arrives at Henry Art Gallery, there is paparazzi outside, and even a red carpet. Celebrities and professionals alike attend this ball every year and the public can't get enough of it. Dean tenses next to Castiel, clearly seeing all of the commotion happening outside of their tinted windows. Castiel puts his notes away and turns to Dean, reaching to place a hand on his knee, fingers squeezing.

“Don’t look directly at the cameras, or the flash will hurt your eyes. You don't have to smile, but make sure you keep pace with me. We will be holding hands the entire time. The red carpet is a straight line into the reception hall and we won't stray a foot off of it.”

The words register for Dean and he nods, chewing his lower lip briefly before letting out a smooth breath. “Alright.”

Castiel is already smiling before the chauffeur opens the door. 

It's loud. Castiel steps out first, fingers fastening the single button of his suit jacket as he straightens. Shutters flash. The women online love every photo of him buttoning or unbuttoning, or even fastening his cufflinks. He's very gracious about their hungry needs. He pauses and then turns back towards the car, gracefully holding his hand out, and the crowd seems to hush slightly, everyone wondering who Dr. Castiel Novak brought this year.

Dean reaches out to take Castiel’s hand, and his exit out of the car likely makes angels swoon and women faint. In the time between Castiel touching his knee and exiting the car, Dean has schooled his handsome expression into the softest of smiles, green eyes crinkling at the corners, his body language relaxed and open.

Castiel reminds himself that Dean had to seduce all of his victims, somehow, and obviously this is the Dean that was successful in it. No one suspects a handsome, suave man.

He looks damn good standing next to Castiel, and Castiel could almost scream up at the heavens, he feels so exhilarated. All of the people are photographing the most prolific serial killer since The Green River killer and they are none the wiser. Dean is subtle but royal with his free hand tucked loosely into the pocket of his slacks, his other fingers entwined with Castiel’s, looking like a Hollywood heart throb and totally at home among the flashes. The lights don't seem to bother him and Castiel allows some photographers to direct them - “Look here!” “Turn left!” “Slightly closer together!” - comforted by the fact that Dean is falling into his role with precision.

Dean Winchester does nothing in halves.

The walk down the red carpet takes almost ten minutes, some other headliners for the ball gathering paparazzi attention, but most everyone is shouting and calling at Castiel and Dean. They're a hit. _Dean_ is a hit and Castiel knows his darkest secret. Dean’s body language stays relaxed, and sometimes his hand comes out of his pocket to give small waves, but where their fingers are joined Dean’s grip is like a vice, the only notion Castiel has of his nerves.

Once inside, the doors swing shut and the clamor dies. Castiel tugs Dean closer to him to murmur in his ear, “Will you let me fuck you tonight?”

Dean’s pupils dilate slightly, and he nods.

Signing in doesn't take much longer and then a chaperone is escorting them towards the main hall. Many are in attendance; scholars, colleagues, celebrities, and wealthy individuals who love a photo op. All greet Castiel with respect and vigor, and Castiel lets go of Dean’s hand to rest his palm on the small of his back instead, shaking masculine hands and giving kisses to soft cheeks.

“Wow, Clarence."

A voice behind them makes Castiel turn around, although Dean seems confused by the name. Meg is beautiful in a long black gown with silver and sparkle accents, the sweetheart neckline accentuating her curves. She's holding a black clutch in one hand and holding the other out towards Dean, her smirk predatory.

“You must be the mystery date. You've got the whole town talking already,” she says, voice dripping with honey and venom.

Dean shakes her hand a bit warily; she’s the first person to acknowledge Dean with more than a smile and a nod. “Dean Winchester.”

“Oh,” Meg brings the hand up with her clutch to her heart, sending Castiel a faux dreamy look, “even his name is photogenic. Where did you find him, Clarence? I want one.”

“Sorry, Meg. You likely won't find anything like him on the market,” Castiel says, his hand on Dean’s lower back bringing him slightly tighter into his side. “And your date is…?”

“Drunk already,” Meg says with a shrug, red lips still smiling. “Can I third wheel?”

Castiel seems to consider. When he's making his speech it would be good for Dean to not be alone in the crowd, but at the same time, he’s unsure if Meg is the right company. A quick glance at Dean shows the man still guarded but slightly amused, and Castiel thinks it's good enough.

“You may come back to keep Dean company when I go on stage. For now, we must keep making our rounds." Meg seems satisfied, tossing a wink to Dean before sauntering off towards the open bar. Turning to Dean, Castiel lowers his voice a bit. “Will that be alright?”

Dean shrugs a little, his eyes watching Meg as she walks away. Focused. Sharp. “Should be fun.”

Something about that look intrigues Castiel and ignites him all at once. He follows Dean’s gaze to Meg, and then speaks again. “Dean. Is she your… type?”

Dean has never mentioned why he chose his victims, although based on description, they were all brunette - female and male - upper class, and incredibly high risk. It doesn't get any more high risk than this event, and Castiel is pleased at Dean’s reaction. All this time Castiel has kept Dean to himself, learning him inside and out, and all this time Dean has been abstinent from killing. But Castiel had been thinking about exposing Dean to an Opportune Moment for quite some time, just to see his reaction.

He's not disappointed. He can see the hunger in Dean’s eyes, the twitch in his fingers. It's all clinical perspective, of course; the doctor in Castiel wants to know what makes the _hunter_ in Dean tick.

Castiel himself just so happens to find a thrill in it.

“Yeah,” Dean finally replies, gaze snapping back to Castiel. His emerald eyes are still hungry, but there's question in them. “...Why?”

“I thought she might be,” Castiel says simply.

Recognition flashes in Dean’s features, and then he gets a little defensive. “This is why you want me here. Her.”

“Partially,” Castiel admits. “Firstly, I really do enjoy showing you off.” Castiel moves so he’s standing in front of Dean, reaching up to fix his perfect bowtie. “So many people are admiring you, I'm caught between jealousy and pride.” He tugs on the royal blue kerchief in Dean’s breast pocket, “Secondly, I am curious about your more… carnal side.”

Castiel has Dean in the best way: submissive, wanting, broken. But Castiel wants to see the Dean that walked the red carpet - the Dean that seduces and wins the trust of his victims only to snuff the life right out of them.

“It's been almost a year, Cas.” Dean says, almost distractedly. His gaze flits over Castiel’s shoulder, no doubt finding Meg in the crowd. “You asked me to stop.”

“I'm not asking you to kill her,” Castiel says easily. He finishes toying with the kerchief, tugging Dean’s bowtie to bring the man nearly nose to nose. Their gazes lock. “Just… scare her.”

Dean steadily keeps his eyes on Castiel’s for a breathless moment, before he pulls away slightly. “...Alright."

“When I go up for my speech,” Castiel says, “whisk her away. She wants your cock, she’ll easily go.”

Dean flushes at the vulgar words, even if he knows it's true. Castiel revels in the knowledge that he himself is the only one who ever has, and ever will, lay a hand on Dean Winchester. 

Dean, however, will lay his hands on someone else tonight.

Castiel hopes to keep his erection at bay until after he addresses hundreds of people from a stage. 

Smoothing his hands over the lapels of Dean’s suit jacket Castiel finally pulls bodily away, sharing an intimate, sweet smile with Dean that a few insider photographers definitely catch. “You make me proud, Dean Winchester.”

Very, very small, Dean returns the smile, but Castiel feels its weight in gold. Castiel leans in to kiss Dean’s temple just in time for the lights to dim and a man to take center stage at the podium, tapping the mic for attention.

“Welcome, our most charitable community,” the speech starts, and Castiel tunes the man out as he takes up post next to Dean once more, his hand possessively resting on the man's lower back once again, silently staking his claim. Castiel is never this touchy with his dates, and he knows people are looking, whispering. 

He expects his smiling face to be in one of the small excerpt photos on the cover of tomorrow's tabloids. If he's lucky, full cover. Even luckier - Dean Winchester smiling and waving at the cameras, looking perfectly at home next to Dr. Novak, full article and spread.

Oh, how Castiel loves the gossip wheel.

The introduction and thank you speech lasts for about eight minutes. Castiel’s own speech focuses on the importance of mental health facilities in the community - outreach centers, hospitals, as well as readily accessible counselors - and an announcement for the book he is halfway through writing. People have been demanding he do an autobiography for years, but Castiel isn't interested in filling five hundred pages with words and anecdotes revolving around himself. Instead he's writing about his own discoveries throughout his twenty years of practice. At forty-five years old he hasn't seen or heard it all… but he thinks that his current research will be the clincher.

The study of Dean Winchester, Golden Gardens killer.

The applause dies down and Castiel finally pays attention to the man on stage, knowing his own name is about to be announced. Dean is physically next to Castiel but mentally far away - clearly anticipatory about Meg coming to take Castiel’s spot next to him.

“And now, a man who really needs no introduction: Dr. Castiel James Novak!”

Applause starts up again, accompanied with a few hoots and whistles. Castiel kisses Dean’s cheek for luck, and Dean at least leans in to him a little before Castiel weaves his way through the crowd. Lots of people pat him on the shoulders, clap his back, shake his hand, and then he's hopping up the stage in a show of enthusiasm that he doesn't really feel inside. At the podium he waves out at the crowd, smiling widely, his cheeks hurting from the strain. It's been a long time since he's made a public appearance and now he's remembering how tedious they are. When the crowd finally settles Castiel leans towards the mic, hands on either side of the podium, speaking in his smooth, low timbre.

His whole speech is memorised to the degree that he doesn't even pay attention to the words coming out of his mouth. This allows him to scan the crowd and find Dean - easy, thanks to him being a whole head taller than the women surrounding him - who is leaning to the side a bit. Dark curls are all Castiel can see but he knows it's Meg. Dean’s eyes aren't even on the stage; he’s listening to whatever dribble is coming out of Meg’s smart mouth with beautifully feigned interest. 

An amazing actor.

He even smiles at surely appropriate spots, and Castiel knows he's teasing the woman by the way his brows waggle and his teeth flash with his grin. Oh, how Castiel wishes he could hear Dean talk. Listen to what pretty lies he weaves to make anyone believe anything he says, in that sweet honey drawl. Everyone trusts a Texas boy.

He can easily see why Dean’s victims went so willingly with him. A flash of Dean’s ring in the light clears a path to where his hand slides over Meg’s waist as he ducks his head to hear her better. Castiel doesn't miss a beat, or a word. Dean doesn't either.

Halfway through Castiel’s eleven minute speech he sees Meg leading Dean through the crowd. No one seems to pay them any mind, Castiel’s voice always having a commanding notion to it, demanding the attention of anyone within earshot. As Meg leads Dean towards an exit that leads to the restrooms he’s pleased to see the man toss a glance over his shoulder to look right at Castiel - a sinister smile spreading over his lips, fire in gemstones.

Castiel pauses for longer than usual between lines. No one notices. He licks his lips and continues, and when eleven minutes is up Dean and Meg are still gone, Castiel’s nerves tingling. He stays on stage for a beat, bowing to the crowd and waving amiably, even posing for a few photos, and then takes his time descending the steps. Thankfully no one notices that Dean doesn't join his side as he starts to have less shallow conversation with the people around him, answering questions and always dodging the “are you going to go on tour?” questions.

It’s another ten minutes until Dean comes back into orbit, effortlessly slotting himself against Castiel’s side. He’s… relaxed. And not just the fake relaxed he was showing the paparazzi earlier, but _really_ , truly relaxed. When his hand finds Castiel’s his fingers are loose and pliant, his body language much more receptive to the strangers mingling around them, and Castiel suddenly finds a question falling off of his tongue. 

“Did you…?” 

Dean flashes him a smile. It’s rare that he does so, always reserving his smile for private moments, weaker moments, but this one is warm with all of the affection that he normally squashes down. “She left.”

Castiel chews his lower lip, eyes flicking over Dean’s features. He wants to know what Dean looks like when he strangles - how strong his hands look against delicate necks like Meg’s, how his muscles flex, how his eyes narrow in concentration. Since he let her live, Castiel wonders at what moment Dean almost snapped. What moment made him pull away from Meg and leave her to live another day. He thinks about Dean crowding Meg up against a shadowed wall, his thick body caging her in, fingers on her windpipe. Did he kiss her? A glance down at Dean’s lips shows them just as undisturbed as when Castiel let them. So, no. No kissing. Dean actually doesn’t look very rumpled at all, which Castiel finds fascinating. Meg was probably like a bitch in heat grinding up against him, manicured nails trying to grab at him, pull him close, pouting when she got denied his sweet sweet mouth.

He imagines he’ll get a call from Meg in the morning. He looks forward to it. 

Now that Dean is back at Castiel’s side and Castiel’s big speech is over, more people are starting to interact with Dean. Perhaps it’s because his body language is much more receptive this time around. Before, he’d been so closed off, obviously uncomfortable. People at these sort of events are very good at reading body language, thankfully. But now- now, Dean is a beacon. Sandy blond hair coiffed, green eyes bright and almost sparkling, freckled cheeks warm with his genuine smile. This Dean is captivating.

He demurs modestly when question after question comes; he reveals that he does classic car restorations but not much else. He’s quite well read, even if Castiel had to pull the information out of him like teeth, and Castiel tries not to eavesdrop too much on Dean’s conversations, but a specific quote resonates deep within him when recited in Dean’s sweet, sweet honey drawl.

“We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful about what we pretend to be.”

Bold. Profound. _Exposing_. Dean may as well have stamped ‘GOLDEN GARDENS KILLER’ on his forehead and the beauty of it is that the people eat up the Vonnegut quote and spout a few in reply, eager to engage Dean in a conversation that he is willing to dive into. Their fingers are still loosely linked and Castiel gives a slight squeeze - it’s returned - before he smiles in satisfaction to himself. 

All of these people think they’re so smart. And yet, none of them know who they’re in the presence of. 

Castiel had known right away. 

Over a year ago Dean had laid down on his couch, grumping about his little brother convincing him to go see a therapist because of his ‘depressive episodes’. 

Castiel had sniffed him out immediately. 

It only took a few more sessions of gentle coaxing and obscure references for Dean to catch on that Castiel knew _something_ was special about him, and when the can of worms finally opened, Dean was as rare and beautiful as the night blooming cereus. Dean had had his reservations about coming clean to Castiel, but as soon as he realized that Castiel was more interested in him than _turning_ him in, the floodgates opened. Castiel had mentioned that he noticed the fluctuations of Dean’s mood from meeting to meeting correlating with news reports of bodies being discovered or people going missing, and Dean had at first panicked - afraid that other people would make the connection too - but Castiel had assured him asylum. 

Ironic.

Surrounded by other esteemed professionals in the field, Castiel feels a smugness deep in his bones. 

Dean Winchester, Golden Gardens killer, is his, and no one else’s.

The event lasts a few hours more, Castiel politely pulling Dean away from conversation for food and drink. The stream of people introducing themselves to Dean and visiting with Castiel seems endless, and finally when Castiel checks his watch it’s eleven p.m. and he pulls out his phone to text his driver. 

“My apologies, Cain,” Castiel interrupts the psychiatrist currently chatting with Dean about nature hikes, of all things. “Our car will be around front in ten minutes.”

Cain looks at Castiel with his steely gaze and for a moment Castiel has the irrational thought that Cain _knows_. His conversation with Dean has been the longest of the evening, and Castiel has always thought the man incredibly intelligent, and scarily perceptive. After all, he had mentored Castiel briefly during his understudy. He’s talking to Dean like an equal, not like some flimsy passing interest, and Castiel can see that Dean is a little taken with the man. 

Oh, no. Cain doesn’t know.

Castiel is feeling… jealous.

It seems to take a lifetime, but Cain finally offers a small polite smile towards Castiel. “No worries, Castiel. Your date is lovely, it was quite easy to get carried away in conversation.”

Dean looks properly complimented, but he still doesn’t blush like when Castiel compliments him. 

“Yes, you can see why I am so eager to get him home,” Castiel says without any shame. Now Dean’s ears flush slightly, Castiel finding immense pleasure in the response. 

Cain’s eyes twinkle a bit, not entirely kind, before he nods and takes a step away. He holds out his hand and Dean shakes it - and then he holds his hand towards Castiel. “Always a pleasure, Castiel. Do try to visit with me more often.” 

Castiel’s handshake is firmer than it needs to be, but he will not bend to Cain’s alpha complex. “Have a good night, Cain.” 

Their hands part and Castiel puts the same hand on the small of Dean’s back, leading him away from Cain, whose eyes burn into Castiel’s back as they exit the main hall of the gallery. The car is already at the curb and as they’re leaving there’s still some lingering paparazzi that hold their cameras out for pictures, which Castiel graciously allows. He and Dean likely look a bit tired, but now he thinks as they pose for a few shots, their body language is even more in tune with one another now that Dean has found… release.

“Dr. Novak, what is your date’s name?” One of the paparazzi asks.

Castiel’s smile widens of its own volition, pride in his ownership radiating off of him in waves. 

“This is Dean Winchester.”

Golden Gardens killer.

\--

Inside Castiel’s house he turns to Dean, undressing him painstakingly slow, button by button - “It is a rental, after all, Dean” - even though he knows the other man is getting impatient. It doesn’t actually take that long to get Dean stripped down but he drags it out as much as possible, anyway, enjoying the beautiful _deadly_ man in front of him turn into a whimpering mess. It really wouldn’t be too difficult to clean the suit here, should the need arise, but Castiel is enjoying the power play. 

Castiel slaps Dean’s cheek hard, bringing the man back to reality. “Patience, Dean.”

Dean’s got stars in his eyes from the hit - a normal, expected, beautiful reaction. “Yes, Sir.”

Castiel strips Dean completely nude in the foyer before he brings the man back to his bedroom. Dean climbs onto the bed on his hands and knees, and this is where Castiel feels arousal punch through his gut - Dean Winchester, Golden Gardens killer, _presenting_ his asshole for Dr. Castiel Novak to use and abuse.

They've done everything but fuck, and Castiel is prepared. Just because Dean likes to hurt doesn't mean Castiel is going to be entirely brutal during their first coupling. No matter what they get up to, Dean is still broken, still has sharp edges that Castiel tries to avoid. His palms are still ready to strike, though. He grabs the tube of lube and a condom from his nightstand and sets them on the bed within reach before climbing up behind Dean, gripping his ass cheeks and spreading him wide to watch his hole flutter and pucker.

“What was it like,” Castiel breathes as he slicks his fingers.

“She-" Dean moans when the first finger breaches. They've done this plenty of times. “She wanted to fuck, when… when we left the crowd.” Perfect, lovely Dean. Knowing exactly what Castiel was asking about. 

“Of course she did,” Castiel replies, working in a second finger. “Look at you.”

Dean’s knees spread, his arms obediently above his head to grip the wooden slats of the headboard even as his skin flushes with the praise. “I made her think I wanted it.” The thick muscles stretch and span under Dean’s freckled skin enchantingly.

“Did you kiss her?” The question burns as it falls off of Castiel’s lips, dripping like lava onto Dean’s skin.

“No,” Dean gasps when his fingers brush against his prostate, “no, Sir. I… mhh- I can seduce… in other ways…”

“Tell me.” Castiel has been wary of approaching this subject in the bedroom, but his cock is only getting harder and Dean is only getting needier so here they barrel on.

“Touched her,” Dean says, voice breathy. “Got my hand up her dress. Her pussy was already so wet…” The words coming from his mouth are filthy, but Castiel knows they don't turn Dean on. Can't. “I had to cover her mouth, she was being so loud.”

Ah, so that's why they didn't kiss. Castiel adds a third finger to stretch Dean open, eyes glued to the way Dean’s rim sucks his fingers in hungrily. Dean’s lips are his and his only.

“She… ah, my fingers slipped inside of her…” Dean writhes a bit, resisting the urge to move back against Castiel’s hand. His body is a true work of art, built from the gym and subduing victims for the past two years. “It was disgusting. She was such a whore for me, wanting me so bad she could have came from my fingers alone.”

Dean speaks with revulsion, but he moans in reaction to Castiel’s fingers. Wondrous.

“Did you make her cum?” Castiel asks, rotating his wrist.

Dean whines, “No- I… my fingers were slicked with her juice and I…” he presses his forehead into the comforter, trying to gather his thoughts as well as his sanity from Castiel’s talented fingers. “I wrapped them around her throat. She-" he huffs a laugh. “She thought it was hot at first. Begged me with her eyes to choke her.”

Castiel knew Meg would be freaky. The few times they had knocked boots she had always been into… unconventional kinks. Nothing Castiel had cared to explore, because he at the time had just been looking for release with a warm body. But definitely something he wanted to _exploit_ , especially with Dean as his tool.

“And then you choked her…” Castiel prompts, because Dean had trailed off, finally rocking against Castiel’s fingers. 

“S-softly at first. Didn't… wanna scare her right away,” Dean explains. “Gotta make ‘em feel good so they… ah, trust you…”

Brilliant. Castiel withdraws his fingers from Dean’s hole and rolls on the condom, jerking himself a few times. “You were gone for nearly fifteen minutes.”

Dean actually manages a chuckle now that Castiel isn't torturing him. “She was a slut. I took my time… it's better when they want it.”

Castiel grips Dean’s hips, pressing the blunt head of his cock to Dean’s stretched hole, teasing. “When you started to choke her…”

“I had her pinned,” Dean relays, even as his ass grinds back against Castiel’s dick. He wriggles his hips slowly from side to side. There’s no jiggle in his glutes - the man truly an Adonis. “One hand on her mouth, the other on her throat, my body against hers. She was so excited at first. Thought I was gonna hold her down and force her into a rough fuck.”

“She would have loved that,” Castiel says. Meg had an affinity to being pinned and manhandled. Dean had been right up her alley - in Meg’s mind, at least.

“But then I cut off her airway,” Dean says, propping up on his hands for leverage, clearly getting impatient with Castiel’s teasing. “And then I pinched her nose shut and that's when I saw it.” Dean’s voice turns reverent. “The fear.”

Castiel slams his cock home in one movement. Dean barely makes a noise but collapses down onto his elbows, his whole body shuddering with his breaths. The heat around Castiel’s cock is _exquisite_ and he has to commend himself for waiting a year to be buried inside Dean Winchester. He drapes over the man’s back and reaches up with a hand, wrapping his fingers around Dean’s throat - another new introduction in the bedroom - and speaks roughly against his skin.

“Did she cry?”

It takes a moment for Dean to reply, Castiel feeling his body pulsing at the sensation of being filled and the threat of being choked. “Not at first.”

“Did she pass out?” Castiel asks, drawing his hips backwards and thrusting back in slowly, deeply. 

Dean shakes his head, tilting it back a little to allow Castiel a better grip on his throat. “No. At forty… nh, forty-five seconds her eyes rolled back in her head.”

Castiel can picture Dean with Meg pinned up against a shadowed wall, Dean’s powerful, huge body caging her in and rendering her powerless. He can picture Dean’s strong hands on her - one over her windpipe, the other over her mouth and nose - and he groans, starting to fuck into Dean with precision and strength. 

But a person doesn’t die after just forty-five seconds of oxygen deprivation. No, it takes seven minutes in heaven and Castiel knows that Dean had done more than just choke her up against a wall. He continues fucking into Dean, his fingers gripping the man’s throat and using the leverage to guide the man upright - Dean panting wildly - and he presses the other man’s back to his chest so he can get a good grip with his hand, his other arm wrapping around Dean’s torso. 

“Keep talking.”

“She-” Dean swallows, his adam’s apple bobbing against the palm of Castiel’s hand. “She started hyperventilating. Pa- panicking. Sped up the process. Struggled.” Castiel’s hips are pistoning mercilessly at this point, his sharp hip bone jutting against the firm flesh of Dean’s ass with every stroke. “Tried hi.... Hitting me.”

The angle is a little off, but Castiel manages to pull his hand away from Dean’s throat to land a solid smack on his cheek, fingers spreading and palm moving to cover Dean’s mouth briefly for a squeeze and a shake. He can’t see Dean’s face but he knows the man’s vision unfocuses, knows his lashes flutter in euphoria. 

“She’s weak…” Dean manages to say. “They’re all weak.” 

Compared to Dean even Castiel is less equipped, but here they are, Dean at Castiel’s mercy, willing, pliant, handing over control without a second thought. 

“But not you,” Castiel replies breathily. He shoves Dean down again, hands roughly shifting the man’s body so he’s lying down on his stomach, Castiel’s knees bracketing the outside of Dean’s thighs as he sinks home again. “You’re not weak.”

Dean shakes his head as best as he can from where his head is against the soft comforter of Castiel’s bed. “N-not weak.”

Castiel fucks into him harder, faster. “You’re so strong, Dean.” And the irony of it all is Castiel having Dean pinned beneath him, Dean - this powerful, almighty god of death - writhing and moaning and begging. “So good for me, Dean.”

“C… Cas,” Dean pants out. He squirms his arm and slides it underneath himself so he can grip his cock, moaning both at the sensation and also in thanks that Castiel didn’t tell him not to do so.

They’ve devolved enough that no more words are spoken; Castiel doesn’t ask anything else about Meg, and unless Castiel asks a question Dean doesn’t really talk on his own anyway. Castiel moves a hand to rake his blunt nails down the length of Dean’s back, leaving angry red welts behind, some skin breaking near his tailbone and that’s enough to set Dean off, the man muffling his yell into the blankets. Castiel follows soon after, fingers smearing through the blood and barely able to find purchase to grip Dean’s hip tight as he slams into him and rolls through his release. It’s not as good through the condom, but that’s a conversation to have a later time and Castiel is well and ready to wait. 

He doesn’t wait for Dean to gather his bearings before he pulls out and moves off of the bed, snapping the condom off and tossing it into the small wastebasket next to his nightstand. Dean stays where he is for a few moments and Castiel moves to the bathroom to grab a damp, warm cloth, settling on the edge of the bed and reaching out to gently start wiping up the drying blood off of Dean’s golden skin. 

Dean rolls over slightly and Castiel cleans his soft cock and between his legs, before he stands to toss the cloth in the hamper in the bathroom. When he returns Dean is staring up at the ceiling, tracing his fingers idly around the column of his own throat. 

“Dean,” Castiel says softly as he moves to lie down next to the other man. “Was that alright?”

Dean nods, dropping his hand from his throat so he can start sitting up. Castiel reaches out and catches his wrist with his fingers, humming. 

“Stay.”

Dean blinks slowly at Castiel, jade eyes guarded. Dean stays over frequently, but his space is in Castiel’s guest bedroom.

“With me.”

It’s a request that has never been said. For all of the intimate moments they’ve shared Castiel has never let Dean stay in his bed for longer than necessary, and Dean has never tried to stay. Castiel knows it’s a callous thing he’s done, sectioning them off like this after sex, but Dean has never once complained. And Dean is _not_ shy about speaking his mind to Castiel. Their relationship is twisted; they couldn’t be considered boyfriends, and even lovers seems to be stretching it… 

Dean is a killer, and Castiel’s dirty little secret. 

“Alright.” Dean says, finally relaxing back down onto the covers. 

A load of laundry will have to be done when they wake up.

Castiel turns off the bedside lamp and then draws the blankets back so he and Dean can get underneath them. There’s an awkward moment of finding a good position that doesn’t make their knees or ankles knock uncomfortably, but then after a moment Dean makes the most miniscule movement towards Castiel… and Castiel reaches out for him, drawing Dean in for their first, true embrace. No expectations. No lead up. Just Castiel’s arms around Dean’s body, Dean’s head tucked under Castiel’s chin. 

Just the two of them.

Safe in Castiel’s house. 

Dangerously, catastrophically… in love.

\--

Their image is on the front page of various tabloids and Castiel buys one of each, vainly enjoying the way he and Dean look on film, dressed up and next to one another, each one wearing a tuxedo and the falsest of personas.

Meg doesn’t call.

\--

It’s been two years since Dean first laid down on Castiel’s velvet leather sofa in his office. Dean still lies out on his couch frequently - but now this couch is leather and located in Castiel’s home, where Dean has officially moved in. Castiel still practices at his private clinic and Dean still works at the garage, and their routine is fairly simple. Dean still only really talks when Castiel asks him to, he still buys his own groceries and cleans up his own messes but they share a bed every night - Castiel still slaps Dean, hits Dean, hurts Dean, and in return, Dean doesn’t kill.

They’re sitting at the kitchen table eating dinner with the news playing on the television in the background, one of those cheesy Dateline stories that sheds light on stories no one cares about anymore. Dean had grilled burgers and chopped fresh dressings for them and he and Castiel eat in silence, per usual, but something the woman’s voice says catches both of their attention.

“The Golden Gardens killer case has been inactive for over a year,” the woman says, “but the task force assigned to the case says that they have new information. A supposed dumping ground was discovered North East of Everett, far out in the woods with no discernable trails or grave markers.”

Dean’s burger pauses halfway to his mouth as his head turns towards the living room where the television is playing. Castiel pauses in eating as well, setting his food down on his plate as he grabs his napkin to dab at his lips, scooting his chair out a bit so he can face the television better. 

“Seven people, men and women alike, were found in shallow graves. All fit the previous M.O. for the Golden Gardens killer, whose trail had gone cold. Police are working on identifying the bodies, but all of them have been confirmed to have been dead for more than a year. So far no evidence has been found at the scene - no weapons or D.N.A., but the police are sure that once they move the bodies so they can be examined they will be able to uncover at least the cause of death.”

The lady changes topics to something else and Castiel tunes her out, picking up his glass of wine and taking a deep sip as he lets his eyes regard Dean. Dean is stiff in his chair, jaw tense, sandy blond hair still neatly coiffed, but at least he had set his burger down at some point.

“Dean,” Castiel says softly.

Dean doesn’t look at him. 

“You said they wouldn’t be able to tie those bodies to you.”

“They shouldn’t-” Dean scrubs a hand over his mouth, looking very shaken. “They shouldn’t have. They shouldn’t have even found the graves that quickly. Every move I made…” His eyes dart around without really seeing anything, more so reflecting on his inner thoughts. “There’s no way for them to tie those bodies to me.”

“If you abducted them from your usual hunting grounds,” Castiel says, picking up his burger again, “perhaps they made the preliminary decision by being able to recognize one of the victims from a missing person’s report.”

Dean nods a little, hearing Castiel’s words but not really registering them. “I never left any marks. I always left their clothes on. I never robbed them.”

“They were high-risk, weren’t they?” Castiel asks, finishing off his burger and licking some meat juice from his thumb. He wipes his hands better on his napkin, “Rich. Well-known.”

“Entitled,” Dean says, with a hint of distaste in his voice. He moves both hands up, digging his heels into his forehead. “You’re right. My hunting grounds. I stayed tight. They’re not stupid. Of course they would match the missing person’s reports to the bodies.” He swipes his hands down his face, taking a deep drink of water. “I wasn’t planning on the graves being found for another two years.”

Castiel lofts a brow. “You thought that far ahead?” 

Dean doesn’t meet his gaze. “When you… When we started this. I wanted to make sure it would go uninterrupted for as long as possible.”

“We haven’t been interrupted, Dean,” Castiel reminds him. “It was just a convenient news story. If your work is as good as you say it is, then all they know is that the Golden Gardens killer dumped the bodies outside of his normal parameters. You’re safe.”

Dean finally chances a glance up towards Castiel’s eyes. “What if they come for me?” 

Castiel offers a serene smile, “As your therapist I will be happy to dispel any suspicion the law may arouse towards you.”

“You ain’t my therapist anymore,” Dean says, cheeks puffing slightly.

“Then as your lover, I will also happily dispel any suspicion that may arise.”

“Lover…” Dean’s fingers twitch idly. “You love me, Cas?”

Castiel gives Dean a measuring look. Of course he loves Dean - but not in any sort of conventional way. He loves Dean on his knees, crying for his sins. He loves Dean fresh out of the shower, water droplets bouncing off of the hard planes of his body. He loves Dean’s red ass, he loves Dean’s cooking, he loves Dean’s silent days and he loves when Dean can’t shut up.

He loves breaking Dean and piecing him back together. 

“I do,” Castiel finally replies. “Do you love me, Dean?”

Dean’s gaze flicks across Castiel’s features, unsure of where to look for a moment, before he finally meets his eyes. “Yeah.”

“Then I shall not let anyone take you away from me.” Castiel declares, standing up and gathering their dishes. He feels Dean on his heels as he enters the kitchen and as soon as his hands are empty Dean hugs Castiel from behind, pressing his solid, thick body against the curve of Castiel’s back. It’s not often that they embrace at all, let alone so desperately; Castiel leans back against Dean, curious. “Are you upset?”

“No,” Dean’s words are muffled against Castiel’s shoulder. “Anyone tries to take me away from you an’ I’ll…” he exhales slowly. “Kill ‘em.”

Castiel feels his cock stir. “That seems rather extreme, Dean.”

Dean’s hold tightens. “Don’t wanna go to prison. Don’t wanna be taken away from you.”

It takes a bit of squirming but Castiel manages to turn around in Dean’s embrace, looking into the man’s shrouded eyes, taking in the furrow of his brow and the set of his jaw. “No one will come between us.” Castiel says, reaching a hand up to gently cup Dean’s cheek. “You’re mine.”

Dean nods. “I’m yours.”

Castiel sends a sharp slap across the cheek he’d just been caressing, Dean’s eyes unfocusing for a moment before zeroing in on Castiel’s eyes. “ _Mine_.”

“Cas,” Dean’s voice breaks.

“No one is going to take you from me. I will die before our bond is broken.” 

Dean’s knees go weak and he grabs onto Castiel’s biceps to help keep him upright. “Fuck me.” _Kill me_.

Castiel takes Dean to the bedroom and beats him black and blue from collarbone to kneecap. He gives him a split lip and fucks into him with no prep, the blood and the pain sending Dean to new heights. He’s pretty sure Dean loses touch with reality at a few points and Castiel has to keep slapping him to bring him back, keep verbally claiming him only to have Dean give watery positive replies with hardly any pitch in his baritone voice. Castiel paints Dean’s body with his cum and jerks Dean off until he cries and orgasms and when he’s done he falls atop Dean, kissing over the marks he left behind. Dean will be incredibly sore tomorrow - he might even call in sick to work - but as Castiel showers his mottled and tender skin with soft kisses and licks, Dean sighs and relaxes in the only space he feels comfortable to do so.

Broken. 

“Dean,” Castiel whispers against Dean’s pec, the other man’s nipple still rock hard from all the pulling and pinching Castiel had abused it with.

Dean hums hoarsely in reply. 

“I am thankful you are mine.”

Dean’s voice is barely a whisper, he’s so wrecked. “I am thankful to be yours.”

\--

Another year later and The Knock finally comes. Castiel and Dean had been curled up on the couch - Castiel with a book, Dean with a sudoku puzzle - and both look up at the door. The knock wasn’t very friendly, and no one ever knocks on Castiel’s door anyway, so Castiel gets up with a bit of trepidation. He takes off his glasses and tucks them into the pocket of his button down shirt, approaching the door as casually as possible. He unlocks it and swings it open to reveal two plain clothed police officers on his porch, their expressions giving nothing away. 

“Good afternoon, officers,” Castiel greets cordially. After all, the public knows who Dr. Castiel Novak is, and he has an image to upkeep, even if it’s just a ruse. 

“Dr. Novak,” one of the officers tips his hat. “Officer Sheldon, this is my partner Officer Lee. Could we bother you for a moment of your time?”

Castiel offers a warm smile, “No bother, officers. Please, come in.”

The officers step in and glance around curiously and both of them notice Dean at the same time. Graciously, Dean dons his public persona and stands up, sending both of the officers a handsome smile. “What brings you by? Do you have time for some fresh lemonade?”

Lee looks intrigued, but Sheldon clears his throat. “Mr. Winchester, I presume?”

“The one and only,” Dean flashes a charming smile. 

“We just have a few questions to ask,” Sheldon says. 

“Please,” Castiel gestures to the pair of recliners that sit opposite of the couch and coffee table, “Have a seat.”

The officers oblige and Castiel and Dean sit thigh to thigh on the couch, Castiel draping a warm hand over Dean’s knee. When it comes to public displays of affection they are the best at painting a picture of domestic bliss, even if they rarely touch each other outside of sex behind closed doors.

“We understand that Mr. Winchester here had been a client of yours at one point, Dr. Novak,” Sheldon says, not beating around the bush.

Castiel manages to look slightly offended. “You’re toeing a fine line by learning that information, officer. What business do you have knowing such a thing?”

Lee steps in, clearly the friendlier of the two. “It’s just a follow up, Dr. Novak. A few patients in your clinic have been brought in for questioning in relation to some local crimes.”

Castiel arches his brows, feigning surprise. Of course he knows the goings-on of his clients. He’s probably keeping better tabs on them than the damn police. “And these crimes are…?”

“Petty, mostly,” Lee says. “Petty theft, vandalism.”

Castiel sighs softly. “Unfortunately my work is not always as successful as I hope. Of course if my treatment methods are unsuccessful there are other options available. Are you recommending that I refer my clients to psychiatrists for psychiatric evaluation and medication distribution?”

“We’re trying to see if the connecting factor between them is your clinic.” Sheldon looks like he takes no crap. His gaze keeps trailing over to Dean, who is still smiling sunnily. Handsomely. “We would like to ask Dean some questions about his own history.”

Dean raises his hands innocently with a gentle chuckle. “Clean as a whistle, officer.”

“Why would someone with no priors or even a record go into the Novak clinic?” Sheldon asks. “It seems as though everyone who sees Dr. Novak all have very similar backgrounds. Crime, poverty, prostitution, drugs. None of those things brought you into to the clinic so, then- why Mr. Winchester,” Sheldon’s gaze turns scrutinizing. “Why did you go?”

Castiel makes to answer but Dean interjects, playing the part of patient, understanding partner. 

“It's alright, Cas. I don't mind.” Dean looks between the two officers. “My brother suggested I get help for depression. I was at rock bottom and not doing well at work or in relationships and it was affecting my relationship with my brother - the most important person in the world to me. He did the research and suggested I see Cas.” Dean smiles small, fond. “That baby brother of mine? Real smart. He's a big shot lawyer in San Francisco.”

“And Dr. Novak, you accepted Mr. Winchester’s request to be seen?” Lee asks.

“I did,” Castiel says, letting his eyes linger on the profile of Dean’s features for a moment. To the officers it will look like a lover’s gaze, but Castiel is actually reading the situation. Turning back towards the officers, Castiel gives a small smile. “Dean was out of sorts and needed someone he could talk to without fear of judgment. A repair shop isn't the most touchy feely environment and Dean was feeling stuffed up and trapped with his emotions. We saw each other for a few months and did talk therapy, and it wasn't long before I deemed Dean ready for the world, demons in bed.”

What a lie.

The officers buy it, though.

“When did your relationship turn personal?” Sheldon asks, pulling a small notepad from the pocket of his uniform shirt.

“After we closed our meetings. It was about two weeks later when we ran into each other at the Pike Place market and had lunch.” Castiel smiles like he's remembering something fond. 

Such an incident doesn't actually exist.

Dean is just warm next to him, radiating pride and happiness. He lifts a hand, “I assure you, Cas was nothing but professional during our doctor/client relationship. I didn't even realize I had a chance with him until I found a flower the same color of his eyes and watched him blush when I tucked it behind his ear.”

Castiel flushes slightly - what a romantic, beautiful image. He grabs Dean's hands in his own to smile lovingly at him, but in his eyes he conveys how proud he is for the cover up. “Darling, you know that story embarrasses me…”

Dean tilts Castiel’s face towards him with his free hand, smiling a bit wider. “But it's true. Three years later and you are still the most gorgeous man I've ever met.”

Sheldon clears his throat with a bit of discomfort, even though Lee is eating up the scene like it's his favorite daytime soap. Sheldon makes a few scribbles on his notepad and then scratches the side of his nose, before his mood considerably darkens.

“Dr. Novak, let’s revisit: are you aware of the fact some of your patients are committing crimes?”

Castiel nods gravely. “I am. And I am aware that they also get caught and tried justly for them.”

“But you have never interfered, or even… suggested they stop?”

Castiel offers a plaintive smile. “You could ask a teenage boy to cut down on watching porn, but he would still find away.”

“And what of more heinous crimes?” Sheldon is clearly fishing for something he must already know.

Castiel blinks slowly, “Heinous…?”

“Do you know of the Golden Gardens killer?” Lee asks.

Castiel brings a hand to his chest. “Of- of course, they were all over the news some time ago. The case went cold.”

Sheldon taps his pen idly along the spiral of his small notebook. “We are here on a lead.”

“Here,” Dean says, pointing to the floor to indicate Castiel’s house, “on a lead for the Golden Gardens killer?”

Sheldon’s eyes are sharp as he regards Dean. “Did I not make myself clear?”

Tension zips through Dean's body and Castiel returns his hand to the man’s knee, giving a warning squeeze.

“You think one of my patients is the Golden Gardens killer?” Castiel asks for clarification.

“It's a possibility we've uncovered,” Lee says quickly. “You're not the only doctor we're talking to about this lead. The killing stopped so there are a few options: the killer died, the killer got arrested, the killer moved, or the killer quit.”

“And on the quitting theory, you could surmise that the killer had gotten professional help for their… addiction,” Castiel says, filling in the blanks. These officers are much too smart. This could almost be a problem.

“You're very well known, Dr. Novak,” Lee says. “We are talking to all high profile therapists first, before going down to the more public clinics.”

“This killer is smart. He wouldn't go to some state-insured quack. He's probably got the money and the means to see someone like you.” Sheldon is ice cold, and Castiel wouldn't mind strangling him with his own hands. 

“I see how you could come to that logical conclusion,” Castiel amends. “What can I do for you, then?”

“Keep an eye on your clients. Maybe go through some of their files to see if any dates you have correlate with these ones,” Lee hands Castiel a manila envelope. “It's all the data we've compiled on the Golden Gardens killer. Dates, times, places, victims.”

Castiel sets the envelope down on the table, running his fingers over it thoughtfully. “You have my word of vigilance, officers.”

Everyone stands at the same time - Lee shakes Castiel's hand enthusiastically and Dean’s warmly, before heading to the door. Sheldon forgoes a handshake, looking meaningfully between the two men.

“I hope to hear from you soon, Dr. Novak. Mr. Winchester.”

“Have a good day,” Dean bids.

Castiel walks the men to the door and sees them out; once they've driven away he moves back to the couch, watching Dean open up the envelope.

“I liked Lee,” Dean says as he shakes out the contents onto the table. Reports, photos, handwritten notes that have been photocopied so many times the ink is blotchy in some spots.

“As did I,” Castiel says as he picks up a photo of one of Dean’s first crime scenes. “A pity they're such good detectives. We'll have to get rid of them.”

Dean shifts a little, an excited thrum coursing through his body and exiting in shaky fingers as he picks up an eyewitness account. “Yeah. Shame.”

\-- 

The detectives don't bother them for three weeks, until one day Officer Sheldon is seated in the reception area of Castiel’s office. His secretary, Alex, looks a little uncomfortable with the presence of the surly man but when Castiel shows one of his clients out to the elevator, he sends a small smile and a nod to Sheldon.

“Hello, Officer Sheldon. That was my last client of the morning, I have an hour of free time. Please come in,” Castiel says graciously as he turns to lead the man into his office. He sends a wink to Alex, who relaxes slightly before returning to her work.

Sheldon shuts the door behind him and opts to sit in the recliner, rather than the purple couch. Castiel sits in the chair at his desk he rarely uses - the wing chair being his perch of choice - and then unfolds his glasses to rest them on his nose before folding his hands on the desk to portray every ounce of professionalism he possesses.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Sheldon levels Castiel with a slightly annoyed look. “I haven't heard from you.”

“That would be because I have nothing noteworthy to share.” Castiel says primly. Of course, the whole manila folder that Sheldon and Lee had left a few weeks ago had all of the same information (and then some) that Castiel had dug up when he had been curious about whether or not Dean had been telling the truth. 

Sheldon doesn't bother hiding his emotions as he rubs his temples. “I understand your obligation to protect your clients, Dr. Novak.”

Castiel sends Sheldon his own even look with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I have a very _legal_ obligation, Officer Sheldon. I am sure you’re aware of HIPAA. I cannot morally or legally give you any information unless you obtain a warrant. In the case you get the DA to sign one, I will be more than happy to give you my patient files.”

Sheldon lets out a slightly impatient breath, but Castiel holds up a hand to halt him from saying anything.

“It is my understanding that the Golden Gardens is a cold case, whether or not you believe that the killer may be on my client roster. Surely there is no hurry for crimes past their due date of solving? After all, no more killings with the same M.O. have surfaced and you and your partner said it’s very possible that the Golden Gardens killer has stopped. Perhaps capturing him would put a shiny new badge on your uniform, but time does not seem to be of the essence. Diligence, however, does.” It’s a slight jab at Sheldon’s readiness to come in, guns blazing, to Castiel’s office without a warrant or any probable cause.

Sheldon looks properly accosted and he leans back in the recliner, scratching idly at the side of his nose. “We’re taking any leads we can.”

“And should you find more concrete probable cause, my office is yours to search,” Castiel says, making a grand gesture of his arms. “But until then, Officer, I will politely ask you to refrain from stepping into this building unless necessary.”

Sheldon stands up and he doesn’t look pleased at all, but this little showdown has Castiel on top and Sheldon clearly isn’t used to _not_ having the upperhand. Little does he know he’s playing right into Castiel’s little game. A research project, if you will.

The hypothesis: Dean Winchester will be caught and tried as the Golden Gardens killer.

The experiment: Officers Sheldon and Lee.

The variable: Dr. Castiel James Novak.

Castiel stands as well and shows Sheldon out of his office, and even escorts him all the way to the elevator. He offers him a handshake and an overly friendly, “See you around, Officer Sheldon.”, delighting in the scowl he receives right before the elevator doors shut. Turning around and moving towards the receptionist desk, Castiel rests his elbows on the ledge and smiles softly down at her.

“Alex, if you would be so kind as to upload paper files over two years old into the system and destroy the hard copies?”

It’s a lot of work, considering Castiel’s private clinic has been open for four years and he’s never asked her to do anything of the sort. In fact her nose scrunches a little bit but she nods respectfully - Castiel has always treated her incredibly well and has a soft spot for her, since she’s the only person in the professional world who doesn’t try to constantly kiss his ass.

“Sure, Dr. Novak. Do you have a time frame you want me to complete that in?” 

“Please have it done in two month’s time. Start chronologically from most recent files and move backwards.”

“When I’m done I want two weeks of vacation,” she says with a slight pout.

“Whatever you wish,” Castiel promises. “Thank you, Alex.”

She sends him a much brighter smile, “Thanks, doc!”

Castiel returns to his office, looking around at everything. He keeps it clinical, just on this side of cozy, the walls lined with bookshelves and abstract art, the floor carpeted, and the furniture adorned with throw pillows and soft blankets. This is where he first laid eyes on Dean Winchester. 

This is where he will ensure that the law won’t.

\--

Dean attends every event with Castiel. He’s nothing but perfect. He’s photogenic, he’s cordial for interviews, he even allows stray fanatic women to take selfies with him. Castiel had already been pretty famed for his research, but having beautiful Dean Winchester on his arm had only skyrocketed his presence in the media. Castiel had managed to publish the book that he had said he never would - not an autobiography, but more of a guide for other professionals in the field trying to make breakthroughs with their clients. The wave of requests for radio and television interviews pour in locally, which he agrees to almost all of them when they don’t interfere with his client schedule; but then the requests start coming in nationally, and Castiel sees it as the greatest opportunity.

“I was invited to New York to be on the Today Show,” Castiel says, not moving his eyes from the book he’s been reading for the past fifteen minutes. He and Dean are propped up against the headboard of the bed with their glasses and bedside lamps on - Dean has a business contract pulled up in a doc on his tablet that he’s been agonizing over for days. He finally decided to open his own shop.

“When?” Dean asks, not looking over at Castiel.

It’s such a domestic picture.

When the lights turn off, Castiel will choke Dean until he passes out.

“In two weeks.”

Dean sets the tablet down in his lap, moving his glasses a little so he can rub his forefinger and thumb into his tired eyes. “Wan’ me to go?”

“I would always like for you to attend things like this with me,” Castiel says honestly, “but you are always more than welcome to say no.”

Dean licks his lips and picks up his tablet to wave it idly. “‘Could take a break from all of this.”

Castiel says casually, “I was thinking it would be good for you to… let loose, while we’re there.”

Dean sucks in a breath, body going rigid.

“It’s been quite some time.”

Dean sets his tablet down on his nightstand, turning off the lamp and then moving so he can straddle Castiel’s lap. He plucks the book from Castiel’s hands and makes sure the page is marked before setting it aside, the glow of light on one side of his face casting the most handsome shadows across it. His glasses slip down to the edge of his nose as he reaches up to cup Castiel’s jaw. “Is it smart? Those cops. They’ve been all over us.”

“Those cops don’t have jurisdiction in NYC,” Castiel says, letting his palms slide up Dean’s bare chest. Even without the exercise of hunting and killing, Dean still keeps his body toned with near daily trips to the gym, his body to die for at forty-four years old. “You can change your M.O. a bit to ensure no one catches your trail.”

“How…” Dean furrows his brows. “S’not the same if I change it.”

“Obviously,” Castiel says dryly, resisting an eye roll. “But if you don’t change it, someone will make a connection.”

“What should I do?” Oh, beautiful Dean. How he trusts Castiel so implicitly.

“Blondes,” Castiel says easily.

Dean wrinkles his nose. “Don’t like blondes.”

“But,” Castiel wraps his arms around Dean’s body, pulling him closer so he can nip sharply over the man’s collarbone, “you would find… release. And I know you have a type, but we’ll be there for a whole week. Surely that’s enough time for you to… hunt.”

Dean seems to mull it over as he lifts his hands to rest them on Castiel’s shoulders. “You sure?”

“Positive,” Castiel replies as he lifts a hand to tangle his fingers into Dean’s hair, yanking his head back to rip a gasp from his throat and knock his glasses askew. “You’ve been so good for me. You deserve a treat.”

Panting out a laugh, Dean grinds his hips down. “Thank you.”

“Anything for you, my sweet Dean.”

\--

Traveling is _almost_ atrocious. Somehow people had heard news that they would be leaving the city so there were paparazzi at the airport waiting for them; Castiel never lets them leave the house underdressed, but they’re still dressed comfortably in jeans and knitted sweaters looking every bit like the fashionable gay couple Dean sort of hates to be. People wave and snap photos and both men are wearing sunglasses to hide their annoyed eyes, and as soon as they’re inside the commotion all fades away.

It turns out Dean is afraid of flying, which he had somehow forgot to mention until they were strapped into first class and sitting on the tarmac, taxiing for takeoff. Castiel holds his hand the entire time and is always astonished at how strong Dean is when it comes to refusing alcohol, because the man could surely use some right about now. The entire five hours Dean is quiet, something Castiel is rather used to, and he spends his time with his headphones in and reclined in his chair. Castiel uses his free hand to read over some notes that he’d marked in his own copy of his book, making sure that he knows what key points to talk over as accurately and quickly as possible. 

When they touch down there’s more paparazzi - their Seattle brethren had probably informed them of the couple’s arrival - and Dean is so good at being a chameleon he slaps a handsome smile on his face and even manages to wave and say hello to a few of them. Castiel is right there with him as they roll their luggage out of the airport and to the curb where a car is waiting, and then it’s not long before they are checking in to the hotel.

Dean is antsy. The recording is in the morning and Castiel can’t be any more prepared than he already is so after they’re all showered and re-dressed in less rumpled clothes, Castiel draws Dean in for a searing kiss, pressing his thumb into a fresh bruise on the back of Dean’s thigh.

“Would you like to go out?”

Dean whimpers slightly. “Yes, please.”

Castiel pulls away, leveling Dean with his gaze. “You have two hours. You may use an Uber but you mustn’t go any distance that will cause you to exceed your time limit.”

Dean nods. He surely has a plan of attack (literally) ready to go - Castiel is just outlining the parameters that need to be kept so that he can make sure he has his own tabs on Dean. It won’t do well to lose track of him in a foreign city while he’s on a hunt.

Petting back some of Dean’s longer hair, Castiel smiles a bit sinisterly. “Go.”

Dean responds with a smile that shows his sharp canines and then he’s grabbing his phone and wallet off of the dresser, leaving Castiel alone in their suite. 

He’ll fuck Dean over the balcony when he comes back.

\--

Castiel has a brief ‘aha’ moment as to why he has never agreed to big interviews: the women. They hen and fawn over him and exclaim that he doesn’t need an ounce of makeup (as they apply foundation anyway), all asking very asinine and mundane questions. Of course there’s the usual ‘too bad you don’t bat for our team!’ joke that could be considered sexual harassment, but Castiel takes it in stride and with a smile. He’s wearing black slacks and a crimson button down, the top few buttons tastefully undone. He had staunchly refused to wear the white lab coat some idiot had tossed into wardrobe. Dean is in the front row of the audience falsely comfortable and serene in black slacks and a royal blue button down, the sleeves rolled up to expose his toned forearms. As Castiel is introduced off screen and then shown where he’ll be seated he sends a reassuring smile and wave to Dean - who awkwardly returns it - knowing that this is the cream of the crop. America’s eyes are going to be on Dr. Castiel James Novak and his beautiful partner, Dean Winchester.

Savannah is all business and smiles as she sits as well, shaking Castiel’s hand like it’s the first time they’ve seen each other all day. “Dr. Novak, thank you so much for being on the show. You are on the fast track to becoming one of the nation’s most recognized and celebrated mental health doctors.”

“Thank you, Savannah,” Castiel says sincerely. “I am only happy to help others find answers in what I have studied for so long.”

The audience claps accordingly and Castiel sees Dean sitting with his legs crossed tight and proper, fingers laced over a knee as he looks at Castiel with all the pride and adoration in the world.

The interview goes on as scripted and when a commercial break comes on Dean approaches the set, resting a hand on Castiel’s shoulder as he takes a deep drink of water. The audience eats it up even though he and Dean don't even exchange a single word, Castiel listening to the set producer tell him that he needs to sit more “open” to the camera. As the break ends Dean squeezes Castiel’s shoulder warmly before he jogs down the few stairs and resumes post in his seat, audience members torn between looking at him or Castiel.

Wonderful.

The second half of the segment is also easy, Castiel remembering to make sure his body language is everything it needs to be. Another commercial break, another touch from Dean, and then the producer whispers something to Savannah who seems to light up exponentially.

“Great idea! Dean, let's get you mic’ed up.”

“Huh?” Dean replies eloquently. There's already a PA walking towards Dean and brandishing a mic kit.

Castiel smiles, albeit tightly. “I'm unsure if this is the direction the interview should go.”

Savannah leans in conspiratorially, “Do you see this crowd, Dr. Novak? They are _so_ into you and Dean. They've seen you in the magazines but now here's an opportunity to actually get the know the stud on your arm.”

Dean is allowing the PA to hook him up, sending Castiel a wan smile. The role of silent, handsome boyfriend today graduates into an actual, televised interview. If Dean were anyone else, Castiel would be worried. But as the PA leaves Dean, and Dean moves to sit next to Castiel on the loveseat, Castiel has no doubts that like everything else Dean has done, this will go flawlessly.

“Keep your body language open,” Castiel coaches softly. “Face mostly towards the audience but make sure you also look at Savannah when she's asking questions.” He smooths a hand over Dean’s broad back. “Say as much or as little as you'd like.”

Dean on television is a move even Castiel hadn't thought of. He knows Sheldon and Lee are still keeping them on the radar - surely this will throw them off. 

Then again, Castiel has known sociopaths that put themselves directly in the limelight. 

At least Dean had been coerced.

The camera crew quiets and the man by the camera silently counts down, Savannah speaking with ill contained excitement.

“Joining us for our last segment is a real treat. You've seen him in the tabloids and magazines, and even on some fansites. We bring to you live and in person: Dean Winchester!”

If the crowd applauded noisily when Castiel had first taken the stage, the only description of their reaction now is _riotous_. Women scream and clap loudly, yelling out Dean’s name like he’s some sort of rockstar. He may as well be. He flushes handsomely and smiles winningly, waving gently at the audience before turning to Savannah once it quiets down.

“Thank you for bringing me up to a much more comfortable chair,” Dean jokes amiably.

Savannah tosses her head back in a laugh, “You're welcome!”

Dean chuckles a little, resting his hand safely on Castiel’s knee.

“So.” Savannah looks ready for some hot tea. “Dr. Novak had been a notorious bachelor for over twenty years, until you came along - and you two have been together for almost three years, according to sources. Tell us: what's the secret to winning Dr. Novak’s heart?”

Dean manages a sheepish chuckle, “I don't know if there's a secret, Savannah.” He turns an appropriately loving gaze towards Castiel, who returns it. “I think I was just incredibly lucky.”

“Is it true that you were once a patient of his?”

“Dean is a very successful car restorer,” Castiel says. “In making plans to open his own business he found himself alone and overwhelmed. He sought me out for talk therapy.”

Dean smiles wryly, “Of course, it was love at first sight on my end. But I didn't think I had a chance, so I spilled my guts out on his tacky purple couch and waited for him to give me a clean bill of health so I could skedaddle before I embarrassed myself.”

Castiel gets honestly huffy. “Do you really think my couch is tacky?”

There's a twinkle in Dean’s eye when he looks at the doctor, “It suits you.”

The crowd coos, and then Dean turns to Savannah to continue. “We live near the Seattle area, and in a one in a thousand chance we ran into each other at the market. He was standing in the flower section sampling local honey.”

Castiel makes a show of pulling the mic attached to his shirt up to his mouth so he can murmur, “Save the bees.”

The crowd laughs and Savannah covers her mouth to stifle her giggle.

“I found a flower that was the exact shade of his eyes,” Dean recounts their ruse they had given to the detectives as he turns to face Castiel, radiating the love of a long time partner. “And I had never seen him blush, until then. I asked him to lunch before I could chicken out.”

Savannah claps her hands together and holds them under her chin, hearts in her eyes. “And now here you are.”

“Here we are,” Dean echoes, before sending a smile and a wink to the crowd. The women go crazy and it takes a few moments for the crew to get them to all calm.

“Dr. Novak, I know this is your first nationally televised interview,” Savannah says, leaning forward slightly in her seat. “But is there a chance for more in the future for you and Dean?”

Castiel is truly caught off guard by the question. Marrying Dean had never even crossed his mind; in private they are everything a couple is, and yet nothing at all - they love each other, but that love is a barbed wire fence that wraps them together. He turns his gaze towards Dean, who also looks surprised by the question, and before the beat of silence lasts for too long Castiel speaks a bit softly, feeling his lips curl of their own volition.

“We have already decided to spend the rest of our lives together, whether we marry or not.”

More cheers from the crowd and Dean meets Castiel’s gaze, trying to see through their act and directly into Castiel’s mind. He doesn't know what Dean finds, but he doesn't have the opportunity to know because Savannah is calling an end to their interview, showing her copy of Castiel’s book and informing the crowd that Castiel will be doing a book signing the next day at Barnes & Noble.

Getting off set and out of sight takes far longer than Castiel prefers. He and Dean aren't alone until they're in the elevator of the hotel, where Dean’s silence is more on the broody side. Castiel smooths his shirt, speaking plainly.

“You are upset.”

Dean tenses a little, and then fidgets idly with his fingers. “Yeah.”

“Did you not want to be on camera?”

Dean shrugs. 

“Are you upset about the marriage question?”

Dean’s fidgeting intensifies.

Resisting a sigh, Castiel allows Dean off of the elevator first, following after him. Inside their room Dean immediately undresses, never apt to being in ‘fancy clothes’ for longer than necessary. Castiel waits for the man to be stripped to his boxers before he reaches forward, catching him by his hips.

“Our relationship is… unconventional.” 

Dean stares at Castiel’s chest. 

“Marriage is something I've never considered. Ever.”

Dean resolutely says nothing.

Castiel finally sighs, tilting Dean’s chin up gently to find insecurities starring jade hues. “Is marriage an option?”

Dean hardens his gaze a little, and then nods.  
“Good.” Castiel drops his hand. “But I will not ask you like this.”

Dean furrows his brows. “Then how?”

“With a ring,” Castiel says, a slight teasing lilt to his voice. “And perhaps during a romantic date.”

Dean rolls his eyes, sour mood broken. “We’re past wining and dining, Cas.”

“Excuse me for being a traditionalist.” Castiel starts unbuttoning his shirt as Dean pulls on a pair of jeans. 

“Then I expect a long engagement and you to ask my brother permission for my hand,” Dean says, throwing on a worn AC/DC shirt and a leather jacket.

“Will you wear white?” Castiel asks as he climbs into bed. He grabs Dean’s tablet, intending on looking over the contract Dean can't seem to wrap his brain around.

Dean snorts. “No.”

Castiel sighs and waves a hand. “Off you go. Remember: two hours.”

Dean gives a two finger salute and disappears.

Castiel jacks off thinking about Dean slithering around in bars stalking pretty women until they succumb to his charm, and how pretty he’ll look doing it with a wedding ring on his finger.

\--

Barnes & Noble had not thought about what a task it would be to have Dr. Castiel James Novak present for a book signing. This location is popular for events but Castiel has been garnering attention countrywide, from both scholars as well as thirsty women and men alike, so the line is out the doors and down the block when their Uber pulls up.

“Find the back entrance, please,” Castiel says, thankful for the tinted windows of the Kia. 

Dean is eyeing the crowd with a bit of apprehension. He’s never had to play his facade for so long, and Castiel wonders when he’ll snap and refuse to do any more appearances. Dean is not a social creature by habit, predictably. But he’s going along with all of Castiel’s requests with minor complaint, and oh, his performance is… exceptional. If Castiel could give him an Oscar, he would.

The Kia pulls around the back and there’s a security guard posted at the door; when Castiel and Dean emerge the man shakes their hands in greeting and then opens the door to allow them inside while announcing their presence into his radio. The two men get ushered through the back hallways and Castiel has the idle thought that he should think about hiring a bodyguard or even a small entourage; but then he thinks about Dean, and how it would inconvenience him the most. Dean needs breathing room - Dean needs room to exist within himself. Being surrounded by people twenty-four-seven wouldn’t be conducive to Dean’s… hunting.

Besides, Castiel still thinks there’s time until he reaches _that_ level of fame.

“Welcome!” The store manager greets them emphatically, shaking both of their hands enthusiastically. “I’m Shelby. We have your table set up towards the back so more people can wait inside.”

“Thank you,” Castiel replies.

“We have beverages and a caterer on sight for any of your needs,” Shelby continues saying as she leads them towards the table. She sends Dean a curious glance, “Should I get a second chair?”

Castiel speaks for Dean, “Yes, but it would most likely suit Dean to wander around a bit and keep his legs stretched.”

He knows Dean is thankful, even though the smile the man sends the woman is appallingly fake. “Can’t sit still for too long, I’ll just annoy Cas if I’m next to him the whole time.”

Shelby nods, “I’ll get an extra chair, then, and you’ll be free to do as you please. There are security guards posted around the store for your comfort.”

“Thank you,” Castiel says. 

The table is plain with a deep blue cloth draped over it, the easels on either side framing Castiel’s headshots that he used in the back cover of the book. A little odd, he thinks, to be sitting next to his photo like this, but he won’t say anything of import about it. As he and Dean get settled Shelby disappears momentarily, before she returns to the table with two bottled waters and a smile.

“Do you need anything else before we open?”

Castiel looks down at the dozen or so sharpies laid out on the table - presumably in case the one he’s using dries up. Shaking his head and sending Shelby a friendly smile, Castiel makes a grateful gesture with his hand. “This is all fine. Thank you, Shelby. You may open the doors.”

Shelby claps excitedly and then titters away towards the front of the store. Dean reclines a bit in his chair, dressed in designer jeans and a dark green v-neck sweater, already seemingly antsy.

“Stay for ten minutes,” Castiel says quietly, but pointedly as he rolls the sharpies towards the edge of the table to give himself ample room to sign books. “Then you may go and… see if you find anything you like.”

He’s not talking about books.

Dean grins, lacing his fingers behind his head and relaxing further, looking the picture of casual handsome. The thrill of the hunt always puts him in a good mood. Castiel loves his smile, loves his confidence when he’s like this - but that doesn’t change how Castiel prefers him.

Broken.

The floodgates open and it’s pretty much all middle aged women walking forward in a single-file line, clutching Castiel’s book to their chests and looking at him with stars in their eyes. Castiel had opted to dress fairly casually as well, in jeans and a black henley, and it’s surely doing something to the crowd as they all burst into excited murmurs with one another.

Castiel stands up and the women immediately hush; Dean also moves to stand next to him and as if they hadn’t seen him initially, more women start whispering amongst each other.

“Thank you all for coming to the signing today,” Castiel says, allowing his voice to project and carry. “I hope that you all reach enlightenment through my teachings.”

The woman all start talking at once - thanking him, greeting him, along with other niceties that get drowned out simply by how many women are saying them. The store suddenly feels about three times smaller than when they initially entered.

The two men resume their seats and Castiel picks up a sharpie, smiling warmly at the first woman in line. “Let us begin.” She almost trips over herself coming forward, setting the book down on the table. “What is your name?” She stutters in reply and Castiel opens the book so he can sign the inside of the cover, complete with her name and a little star next to his, before he blows on the ink a little to urge it to dry faster. She swoons. He closes the book and hands it up to her with his eyes twinkling. “Have a good day.”

The woman’s eyes dart over to Dean, and it looks like she’s warring internally over something before she thrusts the book towards Dean, blushing brightly.

“C-could you sign too, Mr. Winchester?”

Both Castiel and Dean are surprised by the request, their brows raising and eyes widening almost comically.

“If-” the woman casts a furtive glance towards Castiel. “If it’s ok? I know it’s your book but- but I’m a big fan of Dean, too, and I didn’t bring anything else to sign because I didn't know he would be here-”

Castiel raises a hand to stop her rambling, a broad smile stretching his lips. “That’s a wonderful idea.” He picks up another sharpie, handing it over to Dean with a meaningful glance. “I always knew you’d steal the spotlight,” he says with true fondness in his voice.

Dean’s ears turn pink and he takes the sharpie, sending a slightly shy smile up to the woman, still clearly caught off guard. He signs his name and the crowd goes wild when everyone realizes they can also ask for Dean Winchester’s signature as well, and the first woman hugs the book tightly to her chest when it’s returned to her, looking close to tears.

“Thank you so much!”

There’s a brief pause as Castiel and Dean watch her walk away, and then Dean sends Castiel a lofty smile, green eyes twinkling.

“I think I’ll enjoy this much better than… browsing.”

Castiel catches the insinuation. “I agree.”

The first hour of the book signing flies by with both Castiel and Dean greeting women and signing books. Castiel’s book is in one hundred percent of every woman’s arms but news of Dean signing must have spread because women are now bringing up different magazines that have spreads of Castiel and Dean - at events, on dates - and Shelby must have stocked them at the counter this morning, because they're aplenty. Smart business move.

When they break for food they leave the table and move to the employee break area, where a few employees are relaxing. It's relatively silent even as the employees shyly greet Castiel and Dean, who fix themselves sandwiches and are content to just listen to the workers chatter. After ten minutes they're ushered back to the table and the signing goes on for another two hours before Shelby calls it a close. There's still plenty of women who didn't get their chance but Castiel doesn't have time to feel bad because Dean’s attention is stolen by an employee, a pretty blonde girl with sweet lips and innocent eyes.

Oh.

Castiel leans towards Dean to murmur, “Ask her to meet you for drinks. Discreetly. I will go ahead to the car.”

Dean doesn't even look at Castiel as he veers off path and approaches the woman who notices him immediately, tucking a lock of blonde hair behind her ear and casting Dean a demure look. Castiel loses sight of them quickly as he makes his way to the back of the store where a security guard escorts him to the car; Castiel pulls out his phone and opens Twitter, checking the feed by location and smirking in satisfaction when he sees #DESTIEL trending in the top spot. It'll gain traction soon enough and become a worldwide trend. 

Dean joins him in the backseat five minutes later, a pleasant flush on his cheeks. “Drinks tonight at seven. She thinks I'm your straight sugar baby.”

“Being a sugar daddy would fit me well, wouldn't it?” Castiel muses aloud as he tells the driver the name of their hotel. “Too bad you're not straight, and won't let me buy you anything. Sort of defeats the purpose.”

“Yeah, well, I had a lot of daddy issues growin’ up but they ain't no kink.” Dean says gruffly, even though he's grinning.

“Pity,” Castiel hums. “But you still take a beating beautifully."

Dean squirms.

Castiel spends the rest of the car ride scrolling through Twitter, reading various snippets of “fan accounts" from today as well as peeking at a few photographs fans had taken. He's pleased to note that in nearly every photo he and Dean are smiling and engaging happily with the fans - they're all talking about how “handsome and down to earth" they are, and how “meeting them irl made my LIFE", more or less.

At the hotel Castiel fucks Dean the slowest he ever has, painting him in cum and blood. He helps Dean shower and get ready for his date; faded jeans, a shirt with a hole in the bicep, and his leather jacket. _Now_ he looks like a straight man dropping his facade for a night out with a pretty blonde.

“I will extend your two hour curfew to four. Have you done research on dumping sites?” Castiel asks, straightening the lapel of Dean’s jacket idly.

“Yeah. Make it four and a half and she won't be found for three weeks.”

Castiel sends Dean a wry smile. “Negotiating. You really are excited, aren't you?”

Dean shakes his hands out. “I gave it all up for you, Cas. An’ now I get to have it again. I-" he licks his lips, then meets Castiel’s gaze. “Thank you.”

“You've been so good for me,” Castiel says softly, using his grip on Dean’s coat to tug him forward for a searing kiss. “You are doing this for me as much as for you.” 

Dean lifts his hands to cup Castiel’s face, pressing their foreheads together as he closes his eyes. “Love you.”

“And I, you.”

Dean leaves and Castiel stares at the hotel door for three minutes before he moves to the mini fridge, pulling out an airplane bottle of Grey Goose and knocking it back in one swallow. 

Dean Winchester, Golden Gardens killer, back from his hiatus.

Castiel smirks at his reflection in the window.

\-- 

Exactly four hours and thirty minutes later, Dean’s key card clicks in the door. Castiel is awake, tweaking Dean’s business contract; Dean comes in like a storm, taking off his clothes and climbing onto the bed naked, his skin flushed prettily, breath short, eyes wild.

“Cas,” Dean nearly whines.

Castiel sets the tablet down on the nightstand and helps Dean climb onto his covered lap, running his hands up Dean’s taut sides. “How was it?”

“So fucking good,” Dean breathes, pushing one of Castiel’s hands down towards his leaking erection. “Need you.”

Dean hasn't been this frantic since the first time he burst in on Castiel and grinded himself into his first orgasm. Castiel is only wearing boxers so he helps move Dean so he can shuck off the heavy blankets and let Dean settle on his lap, while Castiel moves a hand under his pillow to grab the bottle of lube. 

He doesn't slow his movements as he reaches behind Dean, sliding two fingers in quickly, “We’re out of condoms.”

“Don’t need ‘em,” Dean growls, his asshole clenching tightly. “Wanna feel you.”

Castiel slaps Dean’s cheek with his free hand, before hooking Dean’s lower teeth with his thumb as he forces the man into eye contact. “Are you sure?”

Dean’s eyes are wet from the slap as he nods quickly, unable to verbally reply.

Castiel chuckles darkly. “As you wish, my sweet.”

Even through his tender words Castiel is brutal as he works a third finger into Dean. He hands the bottle to the other man so he can work on pulling Castiel’s cock out of the slit of his boxers to slick him up, and then without any hesitation Castiel grabs Dean’s hips with sticky fingers and forces him down onto his erection.

Castiel tips his head back to contain the groan of pleasure but Dean keens, high pitched and wanting, hands grappling at Castiel’s shoulders to find purchase.

“Ride me.” Castiel says lowly.

Dean does.

For being a virgin for so long Dean had been a quick study. Castiel taught him quite a bit but there are a lot of things Dean had figured out on his own. He's a pleasure chaser, greedy for orgasm, and he looks so beautiful when he comes on his fingers or with a plug stuffed inside of him. Castiel has bound him a few times, more for convenience than any sort of fetish, because Dean gets so overwhelmed with the sensations - he’s so… _sensitive_ \- but as long as there's an orgasm in store, Dean Winchester blossoms like the most delicate of flowers.

Right now isn't any different. The raw slide of Castiel’s cock in Dean’s magnificently tight ass is affecting them both and Dean tangles his fingers in Castiel’s hair for purchase, curses and praises falling from his lips in the same breath. Castiel doesn't move his hips, doesn't thrust, even though he so desperately wants to; he’d given Dean a goal, and he expects it to be accomplished.

“Cas,” Dean’s voice breaks. “Choke.”

Castiel’s hands move quickly, one over Dean’s windpipe, the other up over his mouth and nose. He squeezes everything shut at the same time and Dean’s eyes roll back in his head, movements turning sluggish, and Castiel finally pistons up into him, nearly knocking the man from his lap. It takes six thrusts for Dean to climax messily and loudly and Castiel follows after him easily enough, electricity snapping in the air outside their bodies.

“Next time I fill you with cum,” Castiel says, wrapping his arms around Dean so he can roll them onto the bed, keeping his cock lodged inside that sweet heat, “I'm going to plug you up with it.”

Dean gives a weak nod and the smallest of mewls comes from the back of his throat, approving of Castiel’s idea. Castiel kisses his forehead and reaches for the base of the lamp on the nightstand to press the button and bathe them in darkness, fully intending on staying inside Dean for as long as possible. The position puts his head under Dean’s chin and he feels the slightly larger man relaxing into sleep, Castiel’s brain still buzzing.

He had asked Dean to stop killing, and he did.

He had asked Dean to kill, and he did.

Castiel starts thinking about what it would be like to take a life, himself.

\--

A few months after they return from New York, Castiel finally lays down the Topic. It's two weeks until Dean’s garage opens and they haven't seen hide nor hair of the detectives since Sheldon’s visit to Castiel’s office.

Castiel and Dean are at the dinner table enjoying steak and lobster, Castiel with a glass of wine and Dean with a tall glass of ice water. 

“We haven't heard from those detectives in a while,” Castiel says, cutting into his steak and watching the juice squeeze out of it. Dean is truly a treasure in the kitchen.

“Yeah,” Dean replies, eyeing Castiel curiously as he pulls some fluffy meat from his lobster tail with his small fork.

“Now would be a good time to get rid of them, don’t you think?” Castiel asks, albeit a bit rhetorically.

Dean chews slowly and then swallows, a contemplative look crossing his features. “I think so. But why do you think so?”

Dean is testing him. As the seasoned criminal Dean’s mind works far faster and more thoroughly than Castiel’s when it comes to matters like this, and even though it's rather insubordinate, Castiel appreciates Dean’s question.

“The heat is off,” Castiel says as he takes a sip of wine. “They are either stuck at their desks going over old evidence, or working another case. Given the statistics of this city and the latest news reports, I would say it's the latter. There's a serial rapist on the loose and they likely have their hands full. Should anything happen to them, suspicion would turn towards their latest, most promising case.” Dean stays silent, which Castiel takes as a sign to continue. “I bought an untraceable gun many years ago, off the grid, for home protection. It would do well to finally use it. Rapists are more likely to escalate into gun violence than a strangler.”

Dean takes a bite of steak, a satisfied gleam in his eyes. “Good.” Castiel knows that Dean had probably thought of this plan the moment the officers knocked on their door, and normally it would bother Castiel that he took this long to catch up - but he has a twisted pride for Dean’s mind and his craft, so he's going to give Dean the illusion of control on this matter even though it's been Castiel pulling the strings the whole time.

“I will do it, of course.” Castiel says conversationally. A bite of lobster. A bite of baked potato. “But I would like you to accompany me.”

Ice clinks in Dean’s glass as he raises it for a drink, his predatory eyes pinning Castiel to his chair. “When.”

“Thursday. Officer Sheldon has drinks at the same pub every Thursday at ten.” Castiel tuts a little. “A cop of all people should know better than to have a routine.”

Dean agrees silently, returning to his food.

The plan is set.

Now, to put it in motion.

\--

It's raining on Thursday, of course. Castiel purchases a parking pass in Pioneer Square and then he and Dean board a bus heading South towards Renton. Dean looks a little scruffier than usual, but Castiel is hard pressed to be seen in public without a button down shirt. The hoodie is already distressing. On the bus at nine thirty no one seems to recognize them, which Castiel had been counting on. The less people that see them outside of the city, the better. 

The bar Sheldon is holed up in isn't terrible, but when Castiel and Dean walk by Castiel can’t help but wrinkle his nose.

“Snob,” Dean chides playfully. 

“I don't patron establishments that allow their customers to smoke tobacco inside. It's disrespectful."

“That would be something you hate,” Dean snorts as they turn down an alley. 

They lean up against a building, looking intimately close for any passersby that happen to glance their way. Castiel knows Sheldon will walk right past this alley on his way to the bus stop. The revolver is tucked into a shoulder holster and there are leather gloves in Castiel’s pockets, all hidden away from plain sight. Dean pulls on his gloves preemptively, grumbling about the chilly night - but they're both thankful it at least stopped raining. 

Twenty minutes pass before Castiel checks his watch and gives Dean a meaningful look. Sheldon will be passing by the alley at any moment. Castiel dons his gloves and Dean shakes his hands out a little, pacing for a few steps before moving back into Castiel’s space, kissing him hungrily and pinning him against the damp brick of the wall.

“Alright, alright,” Sheldon’s voice comes not five minutes later. “Take it ho- … Dr. Novak?”

Dean pulls away from Castiel with kiss swollen lips and dark eyes, the smile he sends Sheldon anything but friendly. “Evenin’, Officer.”

Sheldon immediately looks wary. “What are you two doing out here?”

Dean pulls away from Castiel and grabs Sheldon by the lapels of his coat, yanking him into the alley. He pulls a rag from his pocket and stuffs it into the detective’s mouth and oh, Dean is _stunning_ as he manhandles the scared man deeper into the alley.

Castiel had scoped this place out thoroughly, and he leads them towards an exhaust vent billowing steam from a laundromat. The noise will be a nice cover.

Sheldon’s eyes are wild when Castiel turns to face him - Dean has his arms under Sheldon’s armpits, one hand at the base of his neck to submit him, the other hand under his chin to keep it lifted. Fear and disbelief is rampant in Sheldon’s eyes as Castiel unzips his hoodie to reveal the shoulder holster; Sheldon lets out a piteous whimper, giving up on struggling.

He's no match for Dean.

“Officer,” Castiel greets pleasantly. There's only one lamp in this part of the alley, the dim orange casting an eerie glow over the three of them. “What a lovely surprise. How are you? It has been too long.”

Sheldon weakly jerks against Dean like he wants to say something. Castiel meets Dean’s gaze and nods; Dean removes the rag and Sheldon spits at Castiel’s feet.

“You can't shoot me,” Sheldon says, trying to sound confident but falling flat.

Castiel arches a brow. “I can't? What a shame.” He draws the revolver and takes a step closer, putting him right in Sheldon’s space. He tucks the barrel of the gun beneath Sheldon’s jaw, enjoying the sweat that drips from the man's receding hairline. “I bought this gun for self defense in my home,” he says, contemplatively, “and quite frankly, I feel the need to protect my home.” He pulls back the hammer with a click only they can hear through the _whhhrrrrrrr_ ing of the vents.

“You ambushed me in an alley,” Sheldon accuses.

“Ah, but,” Castiel smiles a little. “Home is a feeling, not a place. You threatened it.” He uses the tip of the gun to tip Sheldon’s head back until the crown of his head nudges against Dean’s jaw. “Threatened him.”

“He _is_ the Golden Gardens killer,” Sheldon realizes aloud, eyes widening. “And you- who are you?”

Castiel smiles fully, eyes dark. “His therapist.”

Dean shoves the rag back into Sheldon’s mouth and he and Castiel move on another plane of existence, every step calculated and complementing. Dean shoves Sheldon towards where the vent is blowing and as soon as the man is engulfed in the steam fifteen feet away Castiel raises his gun and fires, watching Sheldon’s silhouette drop to the ground in a heap.

It's silent for a beat, before Castiel moves forward to make sure he hit his mark. The steam clears and Castiel sees a bullet hole above Sheldon’s left eye; he hums a little, disappointed that he missed the center by a few inches.

Dean comes up behind him, “Nice shot.”

“Could be better,” Castiel says idly. He squats, taking the rag from Sheldon’s dead mouth to wipe down the revolver and set it on the asphalt next to the body, standing up tall and pulling off his gloves. “We’ll burn these in the fireplace when we get home and take care of the ashes.”

They linger for only a moment longer before they turn away to exit the alley, heading towards the bus that Sheldon was supposed to catch. They hold hands between the seats, gloves back in their pockets, and when they return to Seattle they grab some street food, making sure they're seen by a few people who recognize them.

When they return home close to midnight, Castiel shuts himself in the bathroom, staring at himself in the mirror.

He feels nothing significant.

He feels like he took out the trash.

That blurry line between intelligence and sociopathy is delightfully weathered.

\--

Two years later Castiel and Dean marry at a winery. 

Dean’s brother Sam is attendance with his wife and child, and Castiel is mesmerized by the way Dean adapts into the role of doting, caring big brother, and playful uncle. 

The whole day is a sham, even Castiel seemingly more cheerful than “normal", greeting his colleagues with sturdy handshakes and warm hugs. He and Dean exchange traditional vows as their eyes hold promises of destruction, and at the reception they stay close to one another, holding hands and posing for photos. Paparazzi had been invited, and even a few lucky fans had made the guest list thanks to a small essay contest Castiel held on Twitter six months ago.

Every time Dean lifts his left hand, Castiel’s eyes drink in the silver ring.

They were bound for life the second Dean Winchester laid on Dr. Castiel Novak’s purple velvet couch.

Dean can’t take his eyes off of a pretty woman who seems to be clinging to Cain, and Castiel feels a bone deep satisfaction filter through him.

Leaning in, Castiel gives Dean’s inner thigh a firm squeeze. “Enjoy your… dessert.”

Dean lets out a whuffing breath, turning to kiss Castiel soundly on his lips, murmuring low against them. “I fucking love you.”

Castiel’s eyes glint dangerously as he regards the beauty of Dean Winchester.

“I know.”

**Author's Note:**

> if there are any tags you feel like i should add to the list, please leave a comment so that i can add them accordingly.  
> also i don't watch the today show so if you feel like i did savannah dirty... woops.  
> please please please comment your thoughts! this story is designed to make you _feel something_ and i would love to know what sort of emotions i instilled in a bunch of strangers. :) this story "evolves" with castiel's growing sociopathy and was meant to be read as a crescendo, so if you made it to the end, thank you for following me on this twisted tale.  
>  yell at me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/deansdaisydukes)


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